OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


MtTRAHO    SMITH'S 
***i«l8  f  F  SMKS" 

•33    MAIN    S^ 


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^oflfefi!  ip  JHarp  j^aUocli  JF00te 


EDITH    BONHAM. 

THE  VALLEY  ROAD. 

A  PICKED  COMPANY. 

THE  ROYAL  AMERICANS. 

A  TOUCH  OF  SUN  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

THE  DESERT  AND  THE  SOWN. 

THE  PRODIGAL.     Illustrated  by  the  Author. 

THE  CHOSEN  VALLEY. 

THE  LED-HORSE  CLAIM.     Illustrated. 

JOHN   BODEV\/IN'S  TESTIMONY. 

THE    LAST  ASSEMBLY    BALL,  and  THE  FATE 

OF  A  VOICE. 
IN   EXILE,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 
CCEUR    D'ALENE.     A  Novel. 
THE     CUP    OF    TREMBLING,     AND    OTHER 

STORIES. 
THE    LITTLE    FIG-TREE   STORIES.    With  two 

illustrations  by  Mrs.  Footb,  and  a  colored  Cover 

Design. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
Boston  and  New  York 


EDITH  BONHAM 


EDITH  BONHAM 


BY 


MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
1917 


COPYRIGHT,   1917,   BY    MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTB 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


Published  March  tqij 


■^-  - 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  FRIEND  OF  FIFTY  YEARS 

HERSELF  THE  PERFECT  FRIEND 

HELENA  DE  KAY 

WIFE  OF  RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 

1866-1916 


M 


fi2a045 


CONTENTS 

PART  I.  THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM           ...        I 

PART      II.  AUNT  EDITH  . 73 

PART  III.   THE  WATCH   ON  THE  MESA     .        .        .        .145 

PART     IV.   TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 1 89 

PART      V.  THE  TWO  ESSIES 23I 

PART  VI.   MRS.   AYLESFORD          .        .        .        .        .        .  265 

PART  VII.   OURSELVES 309 


EDITH   BONHAM 

PART   I 
THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 


EDITH  BONHAM 


My  father  shared  a  theory  at  one  time  that  genius  in 
families  takes  the  line  of  descent  which  crosses  that 
of  sex :  clever  mothers,  clever  sons,  and  the  same 
with  fathers  and  daughters.  He  had  no  sons.  Of  his 
two  daughters,  marriage  disposed  of  Essie  so  young 
that  her  genius,  except  for  enjoying  life  in  spite  of 
frequent  babies,  had  little  chance  to  show  itself. 
Anything  of  the  sort  his  youngest  might  be  sup- 
posed to  have  inherited  through  having  him  for  a 
parent,  he  did  what  he  could  to  bring  out  in  the  fond 
persuasion  that  I  was  meant  to  be  an  artist. 

He  gave  me  drawing-lessons  himself,  when  other 
things  did  not  interfere.  I  was  glad  when  they  did. 
He  was  an  impatient,  a  witty,  and  often  a  hurtfully 
sarcastic  teacher.  His  feelings  in  my  case  were  too 
much  involved,  but  so  were  mine !  There  were  few 
things  I  would  not  have  done  to  please  him  as  his 
daughter,  or  aside  from  that  fact,  in  any  direction 
that  did  not  strike  me  as  hopeless.  But  I  did  resent 
being  reduced  to  tears  in  his  presence  over  a 
wretched  cast-drawing,  the  work  of  my  own  hands 
and  of  perhaps  a  week's  misspent  labor. 

Before  he  gave  me  up  finally,  I  was  sent,  in  my 
eighteenth  year,  as  a  professional  pupil  to  the  Cooper 

3 


EDITH  BONHAM 

School  of  Design  for  Women ;  we  lived  in  New 
York.  Four  flights  of  stone  stairs  with  high-ceiled 
halls  between  go  up  to  the  floor  where  the  day- 
classes  for  women  had  their  home  in  the  old  Cooper 
Union  Building  on  Eighth  Street.  Racing  up  the 
last  flight  one  Monday  morning  when  we  were  both 
late,  I  passed  a  girl  whose  face  I  knew  by  sight.  She 
had  lagged  a  moment  to  recover  breath.  We  smiled 
at  each  other,  and  she  took  the  stairs  again  just  be- 
hind me.  I  waited. 

"  I  Ve  noticed  you  so  often,"  I  gasped. 

"  And  I  you  ! "  she  responded  with  a  sigh  to  match. 

"  Can't  we  ask  each  other's  names?  Mine  is  Edith 
Bonham." 

"  Oh,  we  all  know  who  you  are  I  They  speak  of 
your  father  here  with  bated  breath.  But  that  has 
nothing  to  do  with  my  wanting  to  know  you  —  ever 
since  I  saw  you."  She  fetched  another  sigh  with  the 
end  of  her  sentence. 

We  were  going  down  the  main  hall  towards  the 
row  of  coat-closets ;  the  winter  morning  and  the  stairs, 
and  some  excitement  she  seemed  to  get  out  of  our 
meeting,  had  given  her  a  color  to  gaze  at. 

"  Then  don't  let 's  waste  any  more  time,"  said  I, 
—  "or  breath." 

Anne  Aylesford  was  her  name,  and  her  home,  as  I 
somehow  knew,  perhaps  from  the  neat  but  negligible 
way  she  dressed,  was  in  the  country  —  not  near  New 
York.  She  was  spending  the  winter  with  friends  who 
lived  in  one  of  the  suburbs,  which  meant  getting  up 
early  to  take  the  business  men's  train. 

4 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

"  I  We  never  missed  it  before ;  and  I  don't  suppose 
you  are  often  as  late  as  this?  It  was  luck  —  pure 
luck,  or  fate  I"  she  said,  with  that  extraordinary  look 
of  joy  her  face  expressed. 

"  Don't  you  ever  do  anything  about  it  when  you 
want  to  know  a  person  ?  Do  you  leave  it  all  to  fate  ?  " 

"  I  should  never  have  done  anything  about  know- 
ing you.''  She  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "  I  didn't 
want  it  to  come  that  way  I " 

I  asked  her  if  she  stayed  to  work  in  the  afternoons 
as  many  of  the  professional  pupils  did. 

**  I  stay  till  the  scrub-women  drive  me  out,  but  I 
don't  think  I  gain  much  by  it.  What  alcove  are  you 
in?" 

I  was  in  the  life-class  in  painting,  I  told  her,  through 
false  hopes  raised  in  my  teachers,  who  generally 
thought  I  might  do  better  in  almost  any  other  me- 
dium than  the  one  I  happened  to  be  working  in.  "  I 
ought  to  be  in  the  Antique,  plugging  along  at  cast- 
drawing." 

"  Where  I  am,"  she  said.  **  I  'm  drawing  the  Dis- 
cobolus" (of  Myron).  *'  He  breaks  my  heart!" 

I  told  her  I  knew  him  well,  and  all  his  kin,  and  I 
should  be  around  that  afternoon  to  condole  with  her. 

It  was  as  much  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight  as  if 
one  of  us  had  belonged  to  the  **  opposite  sex."  A 
touch  of  enchantment  akin  to  what  is  called  first 
love  (as  if  there  were  no  parents  in  the  world  and 
brothers  and  sisters,  to  say  nothing  of  one's  first 
doll)  hovers  over  my  memories  of  that  winter ;  some 
subtle  sweetness  which  as  the  days  went  by  was  in- 

5 


EDITH  BONHAM 

tensified  for  us  both  by  the  pang  of  unsuccess.  We 
knew  that  we  were  not  making  progress  to  warrant 
our  returning  another  year.  In  my  case  it  was  chiefly 
a  vicarious  pain ;  I  hated  to  disappoint  papa.  With 
her  it  was  mixed  with  a  nagging  sense  of  dishonesty 
in  being  there  at  all  in  the  place  of  some  one  with 
more  talent  to  improve  an  opportunity  which  she  re- 
garded as  wasted  upon  her.  "  Of  course  I  shall  not 
let  them  "  —  her  parents  —  **  send  me  next  winter. 
Manzoni  leaves  me  alone  in  a  way  that  shows  he 's 
given  me  up.  He  tells  me  I  have  qualities  as  a  worker 
that  look  as  if  I  were  meant  for  'something,'  but 
he  isn't  at  all  sure  it  is  Artl "  We  laughed  at  this 
gloomily. 

"  Is  there  anything  left  in  life  for  you?"  I  mocked. 

And  she  answered  seriously,  "You  are  left.  If  I 
may  keep  you  I  can  manage  without  Art." 

We  arranged  to  sit  together  during  anatomy  lec- 
tures and  the  Friday  review  with  criticism  of  class- 
compositions  ;  as  she  brought  her  lunch  I  now  brought 
mine  and  we  had  the  noon  hour  for  solid  talks, 
arms  around  each  other,  walking  up  and  down  the 
cold  halls  past  the  colder  Greeks  and  Romans  on 
their  pedestals,  or  mounted  on  top  of  the  row  of  coat- 
closets  with  dust  on  their  godlike  curls.  We  did  not 
work  to  excess  in  the  afternoons  ;  the  combined  joy 
in  each  other  and  lassitude  of  failure  took  the  heart 
out  of  our  efforts.  We  sought  some  deserted  alcove 
among  empty  chairs  and  easels  hung  with  discarded 
drawing-aprons  that  looked  exactly  like  the  girls  who 
wore  them,  and  there  we  sat  while  the  light  failed 

6 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

and  talked  a  stream  which  never  failed.  Long  before 
the  spring  term  came,  with  its  languor  and  lengthen- 
ing light  and  sounds  from  the  street  through  open 
windows,  and  other  temptations  to  idleness  and 
more  talk,  I  had  explained  to  her  most  of  the  perplexi- 
ties and  incongruities  of  my  own  life,  and  she  had 
envied  me,  as  she  said,  a  life  so  crowded  with  people 
interesting  beyond  any  she  had  ever  heard  of  as  living 
to-day,  and  a  future  full  of  possibilities,  while  hers 
pointed  straight  ahead  in  the  same  old  path  her 
forbears  had  trod  for  generations.  She  was  not  seeing 
anything  of  New  York :  her  morning  and  evening 
trains,  the  ordinary  New  York  busy  crowd  at  the 
busiest  hours;  her  people  were  not  in  society,  so 
called ;  but  she  felt  the  thrill  of  the  city's  life  in  her 
veins.  I  think  it  was  a  secret  anguish  to  her  not  to 
come  back.  But  she  was  inflexible.  I  asked  her  why 
not  try  one  winter  more  ?  —  we  were  all  experiments, 
most  of  us  doomed  to  fail. 

"  I  have  tried,"  she  answered.  "  I  drew  at  school ; 
I  've  had  lessons  before.  It  was  agreed  that  this  win- 
ter should  decide.  It  rests  with  me  to  make  the  report. 
I  could  persuade  them  at  home  that  I  've  been  a  suc- 
cess, or  I  could  ask  father  to  send  me  back  as  a  pay- 
ing pupil ;  then  I  should  cheat  no  one  but  the  family. 
But,  it 's  like  knowing  you  —  art  is  too  beautiful  to 
scuffle  for ;  one  does  that  for  bread  and  butter.  Where 
art  is  bread  and  butter,  that 's  another  thing ;  but  it's 
not  quite  that  with  me." 

This  was  her  little  rigid  way  of  seeing  it.  I  liked 
it  so  —  the  rigidity,  the  romance,  the  reins  of  home 

7 


EDITH  BONHAM 

discipline  she  worked  under,  and  the  fresh  wild  zest 
for  life  itself.  I  thought  it  probable  she  was  right; 
that  none  of  the  obvious  forms  of  expression  were 
quite  meant  for  her.  Life  would  take  hold  of  her  some 
day  through  intensity  of  feeling  (as  /  seemed  to  have 
taken  hold  of  her)  and  she  would  let  it  carry  her  to 
great  lengths. 

We  agreed  that  I  was  to  visit  her  in  June,  at  her 
home  at  Lime  Point  on  the  Hudson  ;  and  that  at  the 
first  opportunity  when  we  were  lucky  enough  to  go, 
her  parents  must  be  persuaded  to  spare  her  for 
a  trip  abroad  with  us,  papa  and  me.  I  feared  there 
might  be  subtle  risks  in  the  adventure,  but  it  was,  on 
the  whole,  the  safest  form  our  hospitality  could  take, 
for  her. 

We  Bonhams,  from  the  forties  to  the  sixties,  had 
seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world  in  rather  jolly  ways,  at 
home  socially  and  abroad  as  travelers  of  means. 
Some  of  us — I  speak  of  the  Family,  not  my  own 
particular  group  —  were  navy  and  embassy  people. 
Most  of  them  had  been  fortunate  in  the  sense  in 
which  my  charming,  sophisticated  papa  pretended  to 
hold  them  unfortunate.  He  was  a  painter  of  progres- 
sive theories  and  a  rather  cynical  —  because  im- 
patient —  temperament.  Little  art-students  might 
speak  of  him  with  bated  breath,  and  his  admiring 
circle  of  friends  did  much  to  keep  his  spirits  up,  but 
his  family  knew  how  seldom  he  sold  a  picture — he 
held  them  at  defiant  prices.  His  studio  was  in  our 
own  house,  the  only  part  of  his  patrimony  he  had  not 
spent  in  acquiring  other  things  he  valued  more  than 

8 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

money  before  he  suddenly  found  himself  impelled 
to  marry.  The  entire  top  floor  was  given  up  to  him 
—  a  great  beautifully  lighted  room  with  some  rather 
dark  and  crowded  adjuncts,  but  it  was  out  of  the  way 
of  visiting  patrons.  He  escaped  interruptions  and 
much  idle  chatter  on  reception  days,  when  influential 
ladies  were  making  the  rounds  of  the  studios,  but 
no  doubt  he  lost  some  purchasers.  We  were  cramped 
for  bedrooms  and  our  servants  did  not  stay,  the  good 
ones,  because  our  hours  were  so  extraordinary.  Alto- 
gether our  domestic  arrangements  were  the  despair 
of  our  rich  kinsfolk  in  the  city,  but  they  were  a  great 
convenience  to  our  clever,  impecunious  friends  — 
those  brilliant  boys  and  women  New  York  seemed 
full  of  in  those  days. 

Essie  and  I  grew  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  irrever- 
ence but  of  startling  sincerity.  Promising  young  art- 
ists and  some  who  had  been  promising  for  the  last 
twenty-five  years,  —  all  the  literary  and  semi-literary 
with  views  to  impart,  — used  mamma's  overcrowded 
drawing-room  at  all  hours  as  a  sort  of  club.  They 
drifted  in  for  midnight  talks  after  the  theater.  They 
sat  around  our  hearth  and  discussed,  most  amusingly 
and  without  any  reference  to  bedtime,  everything 
that  went  on  in  the  city,  in  the  world,  and  whatever 
worlds  there  be.  We  children  heard  it  in  our  beds, 
in  murmurs  and  bursts  of  laughter  through  partition- 
walls  ;  later  we  heard  it  —  all  this  conglomerate  talk 
— with  ears  wide  open  and  our  faculties  awake. 
Language  became  as  the  air  we  breathed  from  hearing 
so  much  of  it  and  a  good  deal  of  it  rather  choice,  and 

9 


EDITH  BONHAM 

many  phrases  that  sank  without  meaning  into  our 
young  intelligences  were  quite  unforgettable. 

This  was  the  chief  if  not  the  best  part  of  our  edu- 
cation. Schools  there  were,  of  course,  but  when  we 
tried  to  study  at  home  to  keep  up  in  our  lessons, 
there  was  never  a  quiet  place  where  we  could  —  the 
whole  house  was  at  the  mercy  of  papa's  enchanting 
but  inconsiderate  hospitality.  He  drew  people  by  the 
force  of  his  charm,  but  it  was  mamma  who  had  to 
take  care  of  them  and  defend  her  own  brood  in  that 
forcing  atmosphere.  I  think  she  was  literally  con- 
sumed by  it  —  burned  out,  heart  and  brain  and  tire- 
less little  feet.  How  often  I  have  heard  papa  call  her 
from  the  top  of  the  studio-stairs :  "  Louise,  will  you 
ask  that  female  what  she  has  done  with  all  my  paint- 
rags  I  If  she  has  burned  them  agaiuy  could  you  find 
me  some  more?"  Our  "females"  were  divided  into 
those  who  never  cleaned  the  studio  at  all  and  those 
who  drove  papa  mad  with  descents  upon  his  sacred 
properties :  either  way,  it  was  mamma  who  made  up 
the  deficit  and  took  upon  herself  the  blame.  He 
adored  her, — he  was  never  the  same  after  he  lost 
her,  —  but  he  never  thought  about  her  as  a  being 
with  a  life  and  separate  needs  from  his  own. 

Essie  married,  two  years  after  her  death,  one  of 
the  young  literary  "aspirants"  who  knew  so  well 
how  to  woo  and  win  a  wife,  but  not  so  well  how  to 
keep  her,  in  the  material  sense  we  were  brought  up 
to  despise.  Her  life  promised  to  be  as  difBcult  as 
mamma's,  but  she  took  it  differently.  I  saw  a  good 
deal  of  the  detached  style  of  housekeeping  and  the 

lO 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

optimistic  creed  with  babies,  who  throve,  notwith- 
standing, in  a  manner  as  sporting  as  all  the  rest 
of  their  amusing  menage.  It  scarcely  amused  me, 
and  it  gave  me  a  strong  distaste  for  another  studio- 
marriage  in  the  family.  So,  although  I  had  my  share 
as  I  grew  up  of  the  extravagant  personalities  flung 
at  one  as  to  one's  looks,  and  more  than  my  share, 
and  much  too  soon,  of  the  incipient  love-making  al- 
ways going  on  —  or  off  —  in  our  unmothered  exist- 
ence, not  any  of  it  touched  me  or  vitally  influenced 
my  future  (except  to  make  me  feel  older  than  I  was) 
—  not  nearly  as  much  as  did  one  particular  visit  to 
the  Aylesfords  on  the  Hudson. 

How  different  with  them  I  They  had  stayed  in  one 
place  and  cultivated  character,  and  with  it  some  of 
the  excrescences  of  character  that  go  with  old  stand- 
ard types  like  theirs.  They  were  very  earnest,  obsti- 
nate, dear  people,  of  a  great  simplicity  and  kindness, 
somewhat  lacking  in  pliability  and  without  humor  in 
the  literary  sense,  but  strong  and  sane  and  faithful 
to  their  clear-cut  opinions  which  were  as  immovable 
as  the  limestone  rock  that  underlay  their  family  acres. 

The  name  has  clung  to  the  East  Shore  of  the  Hud- 
son since  the  first  Aylesford  built  his  house  and  the 
lime  kiln  there,  and  the  litde  sloop-wharf  below  it,  and 
cleared  the  land  acquired  from  the  Indians  (on  a  pat- 
ent from  Queen  Anne)  by  the  ardess  methods  of  those 
days.  The  family  still  lived  on  a  small  portion  of  it  — 
"my  Aylesfords,"  as  papa  called  them.  I  considered 
their  most  valuable  possession  was  a  stretch  of  un- 
touched woods,  the  slender,  somber  arbor-vitae  which 

II 


EDITH  BONHAM 

chooses  this  spot  for  its  habitat.  You  entered  the  twi- 
light of  their  paths,  at  whatever  hour  of  day,  and  were 
wrapped  in  the  spirit  of  the  old-world  past,  of  Italy 
itself.  Here,  with  steamboats  passing  below  its  banks 
and  trains  hooting  by,  this  lovely  spot  had  kept  its 
silence  and  classic  uniformity  of  line  and  color  and 
light  and  shade  like  a  lesson,  to  the  wash  of  the  river- 
tides  on  its  gray-pebbled  beach  and  the  grinding  of 
ice  packs  in  winter.  Yet  not  one  of  the  family  who 
owned  all  this  beauty  at  their  very  door,  ever  walked 
those  paths,  by  moonlight  (when  they  were  magical), 
—  by  any  light,  for  sentiment  or  mere  pleasure,  —  not 
even  Nanny  in  the  heyday  of  her  dreams!  She  must 
have  felt  it  subconsciously,  but  it  was  my  privilege 
to  awaken  in  her  an  artistic  realization  of  the  riches 
of  her  home. 

"My  Aylesfords"  dined  in  the  middle  of  the  day 
and  had  tea  at  six  o'clock — the  most  perfectly  broiled 
shad  in  spring  fresh  from  the  river,  or  in  hot  weather 
cottage  cheese  with  lettuce  dressed  by  some  old  Eng- 
lish cookbook  rule,  and  a  course  of  "preserves" 
or  fresh  fruit,  and  delicious  home-made  cake  —  such 
sponge  cake  I  the  ten-egg  variety,  and  such  baked- 
apples,  jellied  in  their  own  sweetness  and  smothered 
in  thick  cream !  I  used  to  put  on  pounds  on  those 
visits  I  The  woods  were  closer  to  the  shore  than  the 
house ;  they  marched  with  it  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
on  the  Aylesford  land.  They  opened  their  dark, 
cloaked  files  for  glimpses  of  the  river,  or  where  a 
road  or  a  brook  went  down.  The  pent-road  (I  speak 
of  it  by  the  name  they  used)  ended  at  the  old  wharf 

12 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

where  fishing-boats  were  moored  and  shad-nets 
spread  to  dry,  and  above  it  was  the  lime  kiln  which 
had  burned  its  own  rock,  they  told  me,  for  six  gen- 
erations. All  these  homely  details  made  up  their 
peculiar  treasure  to  me.  I  had  never  seen  anything 
like  it  in  my  country-house  visiting,  nor  abroad  in 
places  equally  rich  in  local  color  and  the  indigenous 
flavor  that  had  gathered  here :  pure  American  it  was, 
of  the  Eastern  States,  and  I  was  pure  American  of 
New  York  and  Europe,  yet  it  was  newer  to  me  than 
any  part  of  Europe  that  artists  visit.  I  longed  for 
papa  to  see  it  with  1  But  I  would  not  have  brought 
him  there,  for  that  or  for  anything  I 

Nanny  I  used  to  drag  down  for  walks  in  the  woods 
after  tea,  and  keep  her  there  till  moonlight  sprinkled 
their  smooth,  unlittered  floors,  and  one  felt  as  if  any 
moment  the  voice  of  a  nightingale  through  the  cedar 
aisles  might  burst  upon  our  silence  and  the  river's 
wash  on  the  beach  below.  Often  we  could  hear  the 
beat  of  oars  or  the  sound  of  singing  on  the  water, 
and  as  these  boating-parties  on  warm  nights  some- 
times landed  and  picnicked  in  the  cove,  or  even  pene- 
trated the  wood  paths  in  their  freedom,  and  as  they 
might  be  "nobody  knows  who"  from  across  the  river, 
Mrs.  Aylesford  had  her  doubts  about  these  moonlight 
strolls.  I  would  have  given  much  for  permission  to 
go  out  in  a  boat  by  ourselves,  for  Nanny  could  row. 
But  that  was  unthinkable.  There  was  no  son  of  the 
house  to  take  us.  The  family,  bred  in  an  exclusive- 
ness  peculiar  to  our  old  Eastern  farming  aristocracy, 
cultivated  very  little  social  intercourse  with  their 

13 


EDITH  BONHAM 

neighbors,  with  whom  they  had  not  even  the  bond 
of  church-going-,  for  they  were  Unitarians,  "free- 
thinkers" and  not  strict  keepers  of  the  Sabbath.  They 
were  the  largest  landed  family,  but  one  of  the  smallest 
in  numbers,  and  everybody  not  an  Aylesford  or  some 
connection  might  as  well  be  "across  the  river,"  to 
them. 

Nanny,  when  I  first  knew  her,  had  never  had  a 
lover,  she  had  never  been  paid  "attentions"  by  any 
young  man,  never  I  think  received  so  much  as  a 
"  call "  from  one,  in  all  her  rosy  nineteen  years.  But 
she  was  very  deeply  acquainted  with  Love  as  praised 
by  the  Immortals.  She  was  familiar  with  its  appeals 
in  verse,  from  "  Romeo  and  Juliet"  to  "Sonnets  from 
the  Portuguese."  Her  reading  had  been  limited  to 
the  books  in  the  house.  There  seemed  to  have  been 
fewer  purchases  of  books  in  her  father's  time,  but 
they  took  the  "Atlantic  Monthly"  and  "Littell's  Liv- 
ing Age,"  and  in  the  glazed  bookcase  in  the  back- 
parlor,  and  on  certain  less  orderly  shelves  in  the 
niche  beside  the  sitting-room  fireplace,  was  a  collec- 
tion of  English  classics  that  represented  the  family 
reading  for  several  generations.  They  had  no  idea 
of  the  value  of  some  of  these  books :  the  Burton's 
"  Anatomy  of  Melancholy  "  —  a  brown  leather  folio 
much  read !  Nanny  herself  had  browsed  in  its  pages 
quite  freely,  but  her  mother  thought  it  too  "  old  "  for 
her.  There  was  Croxall's  "Fables"  too,  which  papa 
would  have  known  more  about  than  I  who  only  saw 
on  the  title-page  1722,  and  knew  that  its  "Cutts" 
must  have  been  before  Bewick  and  that  school.  And 

14 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

there  was  an  early  edition  of  Burns  with  cuts  by  Be- 
wick, borrowed,  some  of  them,  from  other  books, 
perhaps,  —  it  was  an  American  reprint :  does  any  one 
remember  the  picture  of  a  child  in  a  field  puUing 
the  colt's  tail,  and  the  mother  flying  to  the  rescue 
down  the  steps  of  a  sort  of  stile  ?  Odd  breaks  in  the 
list  of  poets  and  novelists,  Mrs.  Aylesford  explained 
as  the  result  of  dividing  family  collections  after  death. 
There  were  no  poets  later  than  Young  and  Thomson 
(and  L.  E.  L.),  no  translations  from  the  classics  later 
than  Pope,  nor  from  the  French  later  than  Lamar- 
tine.  Of  the  Germans  nothing!  No  Carlyle,  even, 
to  talk  about  them.  There  was  Dana's  **  Household 
Book  of  Poetry"  which  Nanny  knew  from  cover  to 
cover,  but  she  had  merely  had  a  taste  of  each  great 
name.  It  was  my  joy,  on  her  twentieth  birthday,  to 
have  given  her  the  first  copy  of  Emerson's  "  Poems'* 
she  had  ever  taken  in  her  hand,  a  little  brown  book 
in  cloth  with  the  imprint  of  Fields,  Osgood  &  Co. 
And  in  the  dark  winter  afternoons  in  the  empty  class- 
rooms at  Cooper,  I  had  read  aloud  to  her,  from  my 
own  volume  of  Matthew  Arnold,  "  Yes,  in  the  sea  of 
life  enisled,"  and  the  "  Buried  Life"  ;  and  recited  from 
memory,  verses  from  ** Proserpine"  and  the  Chorus 
in  "Atalanta,"  just  to  convince  her  that  she  had 
been  prejudiced  against  Swinburne;  but  remember- 
ing dear  Mrs.  Aylesford  I  did  not  give  him  to  her, 
nor  even  lend  him.  We  shared  him  on  our  own 
terms,  which  was  enough. 

She  envied  me  my  acquaintance  with  one  or  two 
'*  foreign  "  languages  which  had  not  been  foreign  to 

15 


EDITH  BONHAM 

me ;  I  had  learned  them  on  the  spot  at  small  cost 
of  application,  while  she  had  really  worked  over  her 
Latin.  Her  parents  believed  in  everything  solid,  as 
they  called  it.  Why  give  a  girl  a  "smattering"  of 
French  who  would  in  all  probability  never  use  it 
abroad,  and  when  all  the  books  worth  reading  can  be 
read  just  as  well  in  translations  I  To  me  —  the  younger 
girl  —  there  was  something  enchanting  in  the  quaint- 
ness  of  her  mental  preparation  for  these  fresh  draughts 
of  the  gods  it  was  my  happiness  to  pour  into  her  cup. 
They  as  a  family  were  land-poor  as  we  were  book- 
poor.  My  father  could  no  more  resist  buying  books 
he  could  not  afford  (I  think  myself  he  was  intended 
for  a  writer)  than  Mr.  Aylesford  could  stay  his  hand 
from  digging  up  a  few  hundreds  to  straighten  an  old 
boundary-line.  Thus  I  could  reinforce  her  lean  and 
hungry  diet  from  our  own,  I  may  say,  well-chosen 
superabundance.  When  I  told  papa  she  had  never 
read  a  line  of  George  Sand  nor  Daudet  nor  Maupas- 
sant, —  never  had  heard  of  Alfred  de  Musset,  though 
she  had  read  Plutarch's  "  Morals,"  he  shouted  !  He 
demanded  that  I  bring  home  this  "  wonder  of  all  days  " 
with  me  at  once.  I  had  not  the  least  intention  of  it  — 
for  one  reason,  I  knew  that  he  would  probably  call 
her  so  to  her  face  I  —  But  of  course  it  had  to  come. 


n 

The  Aylesfords  owned  an  historic  grist-mill  that 
had  ground  flour  for  the  American  army  during  the 
Revolution.  The  story  goes  that  a  British  officer  had 
been  sent  up  from  New  York  to  burn  the  rebel  mill, 
but  fell  in  love  with  the  daughter  of  Gill,  the  owner 
and  miller,  and  compounded  his  errand  for  the  prom- 
ise of  her  hand  in  marriage  after  the  war.  It  is  certain 
the  mill  was  still  there,  and  a  daughter  of  my  friend's 
family  did  marry  a  British  officer,  a  Major  Aylesford, 
who  settled  at  Lime  Point  on  his  wife's  property  and 
became  to  all  intents  and  purposes  an  American  him- 
self. 

I  suppose  there  had  been  no  spare  capital  to  re- 
place the  old  machinery  when  it  fell  out  of  date,  or  no 
custom  to  warrant  such  use  of  it.  The  place  was  silent 
when  I  knew  it,  both  road  and  mill.  Only  a  gurgle  of 
water  in  spring  ran  under  the  great  overshot  wheel 
hanging  idle  in  the  wheel-pit,  a  cool,  stone-lined  cav- 
ern all  moss  and  shadows.  It  ran  across  the  road  be- 
neath a  wooden  bridge  and  flashed  out  again  through 
the  meadow,  where  it  watered  the  cows  and  fed  sheets 
of  blue  violets  in  May,  and  buttercups  later,  and  star- 
grass  and  dog-toothed  violets  and  rudbeckias.  A 
rough  retaining-wall  flanked  the  litde  rise  to  the  mill- 
door,  and  three  big  capstones  had  fallen  off  and  lay 
beside  the  road  below,  in  the  shade  of  the  old  pollard 

17 


EDITH  BONHAM 

willows.  Nanny  and  I  used  to  linger  here  after  a  hot 
morning  walk,  seated  on  these  stones  that  we  called 
our  talking-stones.  The  third  stone  we  said  waited 
for  Him,  the  improbable  but  not  impossible  He,  who 
might  come  some  day  and  break  up  our  talks,  or  add 
an  extraneous  silence  of  his  own.  Whichever  one  of 
us  he  came  for  must  expect  that  the  other  would  hate 
him.  I  said  it  would  never  be  me  I  And  it  was  n't : 
Nanny  was  the  first  to  go. 

She  turned  her  back  on  us  —  courtship  and  mar- 
riage and  the  long  journey  not  to  return  —  all  in 
one  summer,  while  papa  and  I  were  loafing  and 
sketching  in  Normandy.  We  had  begged  to  have 
her  with  us,  but  her  father  said  it  was  a  **  bad  year  "; 
he  had  lost  his  fruit  crop  or  some  other  farming 
tragedy.  When  we  came  home  she  was  gone. 

Her  Young  Lochinvar  had  come  out  of  the  West, 
but  he  was  Canadian  born  and  bred  and  colleged  — 
McGill,  I  think  Nanny  said ;  and  he  took  her  back 
with  him  as  a  bride  to  some  little  unheard-of  town 
—  I  had  forgotten  in  which  territory  —  it  was  n't 
even  "  admitted."  And  I  had  never  seen  this  depre- 
dator, only  his  photograph  that  she  had  sent  me 
with  apologies  for  a  certain  expression  it  wore  which 
she  averred  was  one  quite  unknown  to  her.  It  was  a 
lean,  hard  face  of  the  executive  type  which  often 
goes  with  good  drawing,  regular  features ;  the  great 
soldiers  have  been  handsome  men.  I  could  have  ac- 
cepted him  as  a  member  of  the  Mounted  Police,  but  I 
hated  him  as  Nanny's  husband.  She  had  seen  so  few 
of  that  sort  of  men  ;  I  felt  sure  she  would  have  been 

i8 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

defenseless.  The  eye,  and  the  jaw,  and  a  hawk-lid 
making  a  straight  fold  across  the  eye — he  looked 
quite  capable  of  stealing  her  out  of  the  Aylesford 
nest  if  he  could  not  have  made  her  his  wife  in  any 
other  way.  In  fact  I  believed  he  had  stolen  her,  and 
that  if  I  could  have  been  there  when  she  met  him 
first  —  close  to  her  all  that  summer  —  it  might  never 
have  happened.  But  then  why  should  n't  it  1 

I  gave  papa  his  photograph  to  abuse  knowing 
how  he  could  do  it!  But  he  guessed  what  it  was 
I  wanted  of  him  and  went  off  on  the  other  tack  to 
tease  me. 

"A  good-looking  fellow  I  One  quite  sees  what  lit- 
tle Aylesford  would  be  taken  with.  She  'd  be  an  easy 
mark  for  a  chap  like  this."  He  added  something 
about  a  "  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien,"  which  I 
considered  offensive  on  Nanny's  account —  "  But 
how  did  she  ever  come  across  the  rascal  in  that 
bucolic  place?" 

I  gave  him  the  facts  as  I  had  them  from  Nanny : 
how  he  swam  ashore  to  their  dock  one  pitch-black 
night  when  his  boat  capsized  —  or  perhaps  a  steam- 
boat, one  of  the  big  night-boats,  ran  them  down. 
He  was  being  ferried  across  to  catch  a  late  train 
and  a  thunder-squall  struck  the  river.  The  other  man 
was  drowned. 

'*  Gracious  Heavens  I  Can  such  things  happen  at 
Lime  Point  on  the  Hudson  ?  " 

"They  can,"  I  said.  "He  came  into  her  life  just 
like  that  I ' 

"  Like  a  thunder-clap,  or  a  flash  of  lightning  at 

19 


EDITH  BONHAM 

night.  And  she  into  his  like  the  morning  after  ?  Well ; 
I  take  it  very  ill  of  him  to  have  snatched  her  before 
we  had  our  summer  abroad  together.  What  is  his 
name  —  what  does  she  have  to  call  him?" 

"  Douglas  ;  I  suppose  she  calls  him  —  his  name  is 
Douglas  Maclay." 

"  Shade  of  D.  Maria  Muloch  I  He  may  be  *  true/ 
but  he  does  n't  look  *  tender.'  That  face  has  about  as 
much  sensibility  as  a  telegraph-pole." 

I  had  got  all  I  wanted  now,  his  reading  of  the 
face  expressed  with  his  usual  immoderation.  I  was 
mollified.  *'  Did  you  ever  knock  on  a  telegraph-pole 
with  a  stone  and  listen  ?  "  said  I.  "  There  's  a  sort  of 
person  you  can  jar  sensibility  out  of." 

"  Let  us  hope  she  may  jar  something  out  of  him." 
Papa  put  down  the  picture  and  went  off  on  the  cold 
scent  of  the  name,  Maclay.  He  had  a  fancy  for  trac- 
ing descent  and  had  lately  established  a  link  be- 
tween us  and  the  Aylesfords  through  Nanny's  mother 
whose  family  name  was  Gurney.  Papa  made  a  great 
deal  of  his  vanishing  drop  of  Quaker  blood  which 
came  by  way  of  the  English  Gurneys.  He  loved  to 
drag  it  in,  declaring  that  if  ever  he  "  contracted  the 
habit  of  divine  worship  "  —  Quaker  benches  for  him, 
on  the  "  men's  side,"  and  the  peace  of  one's  own 
thoughts;  or  —  he  would  wave  his  hand  magnifi- 
cently—  **  *  Mass  and  rolling  music  like  a  queen '  1 " 

Nanny  had  come  home  on  her  first  visit.  She  had 
been  home  two  weeks  before  they  asked  me  up  to 
Lime  Point.  I  understood,  of  course,  that  she  must 

20 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

see  her  family  alone  for  a  while.  But  still  she  seemed 
to  me  unrested.  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  ofi  her 
face  —  she  often  looked  just  the  same,  and  again  she 
would  seem  so  different.  Thinner,  of  course,  and  the 
pure,  fresh  coloring  was  gone;  that  was  to  be  ex- 
pected. She  had  brought  home  the  worth  of  her  girl- 
ish complexion  and  roundness  in  that  intenser  bit  of 
self,  a  little  year-old  daughter,  named,  for  Mrs.  Ayles- 
ford,  Phcebe.  And  here,  I  thought,  is  where  life  at  last 
takes  hold  !  She  had  had  the  child  in  her  sole  care  in  a 
region  of  no  servant  class  (I  remembered  her  speaking 
of  it  in  one  of  her  letters  as  a  place  where  the  ladies 
say  "ma'am"  and  the  servants  don't).  That  would 
have  tired  her  and  excited  her  too  with  the  vigilance 
required  by  such  new  and  poignant  responsibilities. 
She  must  have  felt  in  coming  home  that  here  she  could 
take  a  long  breath  in  peace  and  lay  her  burdens  down. 
This  was  what  her  mother  had  looked  forward  to ; 
this  visit  was  to  have  been  a  complete  and  much- 
needed  rest.  But  I  suppose  the  habit  of  apprehen- 
siveness  had  fastened  upon  her  highly  wrought  sensi- 
bilities. Imagination,  once  her  friend  and  playmate, 
had  turned  taskmaster  and  could  wield  a  veritable 
scourge.  Also,  I  set  it  down  as  a  fact  that  men  with 
soldiers'  jaws  are  not  rocks  in  a  desert  land  or  even 
the  shadow  of  a  rock,  where  a  young  baby  is  con- 
cerned. And  my  poor  Nan  had  been  feeding  her  im- 
agination, not  on  poetry,  but  germs  !  — The  new  tech- 
nique in  the  care  of  infants,  applied  with  all  the  rigor 
and  thoroughness  of  her  race. 

It  was  the  oddest,  most  unexpected  yet  character- 

21 


EDITH  BONHAM 

istic,  tragic-comical  change  in  Nanny  Aylesford  — 
those  blue  ecstatic  eyes  fixed  on  sterilization  I  I  could 
have  wept  —  I  did  laugh  with  horrid  mirth  —  at  the 
discussions  that  went  on,  wasting  precious  moments 
between  mother  and  daughter,  who  had  needed  each 
other  so  long  and  soon  must  part  again.  Those  mo- 
ments would  rise  in  memory.  I  who  had  lost  my 
mother  quaked  to  hear  Nanny  argue  wretchedly  with 
hers  and  tease  her  with  questions  framed  with  too 
much  care  to  avoid  offense  where  there  could  be 
nothing  but  offense  —  if  not  to  Mrs.  Aylesford,  to  the 
pride  and  susceptibilities  of  old,  faithful  servants  in 
the  house. 

"  My  dear  Nanny,"  Mrs.  Aylesford  would  cry  with 
a  bored,  half-querulous  smile,  **  milking-things  that 
have  been  washed  and  scoured  and  set  in  the  sun  do 
not  need  to  be  scalded  over  again  the  minute  before 
they  are  used.  And  where  is  the  boiling  water  to 
come  from  at  half-past  five  in  the  morning  when 
Jonas  comes  for  the  pails  ?  Do  you  expect  Mary  to 
get  up  at  four?" 

"  But,  mother,  dear  I  some  milk-pails  have  covers. 
Even  our  air  holds  dust,  and  flies — " 

"  Flies,  Nanny  I  I  *d  like  you  to  show  me  a  fly  in 
Mary  Martin's  milk-cellar  I  I  do  hate  to  say  it  —  but 
Mary  was  so  happy  when  she  heard  you  were  com- 
ing home,  and  yesterday  I  found  her  crying — and 
angry  tool  —  because  you  insist  that  boiling  water 
must  be  poured  over  dishes  she  has  washed  herself 
and  taken  out  of  the  china-closet,  before  they  are  fit 
to  put  the  baby's  food  in.  Mary  I  —  who  weaned  you 

22 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

when  I  had  rheumatic  fever.  I  don't  know  what  would 
have  become  of  me  —  I  guess  I  shouldn't  be  living 
—  if  I  had  been  as  distrustful  of  everything  and  every- 
body—" 

'*Oh  mother,  mother  I"  Nanny  did  not  weep  — 
she  blushed  as  from  a  blow.  No  one  could  have 
laughed  now.  Of  course  she  knew  the  gracelessness 
of  her  attitude,  assuming  to  educate  the  house  where 
she  was  born,  where  she  was  now  a  guest,  with  the  ex- 
cruciating power  to  wound  that  love  gives.  But  the 
poor  young  hunted  thing  persevered  with  an  inflexi- 
bility that  showed  the  stock  she  came  from,  and  with 
conviction  equal  to  what  she  deemed  she  had  at  stake. 

When  I  heard  her  say  to  Jonas  on  one  of  those  fair 
May  evenings,  **  I  'm  coming  up  to  see  you  milk  to- 
night, Jonas,"  I  knew  the  old  chore-man  was  flatter- 
ing himself.  He  thought  it  was  for  old  times'  sake, 
and  his  leathern  features  showed  how  deep  his  dumb 
pleasure  was  in  the  conceit.  As  they  rounded  the 
cow-barn  by  way  of  the  lane  to  save  Nanny's  white 
shoes  from  litter  of  the  cow-yard,  he  glanced  up  smil- 
ing at  the  long-backed  roof  which  came  down  to 
within  a  child's  climb  of  the  ground.  He  thought  of 
the  times  he  had  warned  her  off  that  steep  slide  with 
a  voice  made  stem  on  purpose.  She  had  loved  to 
creep  up  on  hands  and  knees  to  the  high  peak  and 
lie  there  with  her  chin  over,  thrilled  to  look  down 
into  the  cow-yard  below.  He  fancied  she  was  think- 
ing of  those  days.  Her  next  words  undeceived  him. 

"  Jonas,  I  know  you  always  wash  your  hands  be- 
fore you  milk," — she  couldn't  remember  having 

23 


EDITH  BONHAM 

seen  him  do  anything  of  the  kind,  —  "  but  would  you 
mind  if  I  give  you  a  sort  of  smock  —  something  hke 
a  coat,  white  drilling,  so  it  can  be  washed  —  to  wear 
over  your  working-clothes?  It's  done,  you  know, 
when  people  are  particular  as  we  are "  (cunning 
Nanny  !).  '*  Of  course  I  will  see  to  the  washing.  And 
I  have  got  you  some  cheese-cloth  towels  —  for  the 
cows,  you  know?" 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  the  cows?  "  drawled  Jonas 
dully  and  harshly.  "Wash  'em  and  put  night-gowns 
on  them,  too  ?  "  He  had  heard  from  Mary  a  disgusted 
account  of  these  new  notions  that  were  upsetting  the 
house,  and  now  he  saw  it  was  his  turn ;  this  evening 
walk  for  old  times'  sake  had  been  a  visit  of  inspection. 
It  hurt  very  much  and  it  came  near  ending  Jonas's 
long  service  in  the  family.  He  said  if  she  was  n't 
satisfied  with  his  way  of  milking,  she  had  better  bring 
on  some  of  her  cowboys  to  do  it,  if  that  was  the  way 
out  West.  He  was  too  old  to  learn  new  tricks. 

Nanny  told  me  all  this  herself  with  perfect  breadth 
and  humor  and  almost  tears  for  Jonas,  and  she 
laughed  when  she  came  to  the  sequel,  her  father's 
request  that  she  leave  outside  matters  alone!  She 
could  quite  see  his  side,  and  her  mother's ;  but  she 
knew  she  was  right,  and  it  was  her  child  I  I  wondered 
how  she  could  ever  be  rested.  Even  here,  the  safest 
place  on  earth,  it  would  seem,  peace  could  not  be 
hers  —  never  perhaps  again.  She  was  always  just  a 
trifle  not  there^  when  we  talked  and  I  would  try  to 
revive  the  spirit  of  our  old  enthusiasms.  And  certain 
little  matters  of  my  own  that  could  not  have  been 

24 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

written,  but  had  waited  for  our  first  reunion,  to  con- 
fide to  her  alone,  were  left  unsaid.  We  could  not  even 
read  together  as  we  used  — but  we  could  look  at  lit- 
tle Phcebe.  Here  was  the  key  to  Nanny's  concentra- 
tion. Her  mother-soul  relaxed  its  fears,  her  whole 
heart  smiled  when  Phcebe  lay  sleeping  in  her  carriage 
out  of  doors  and  we  two  sat  and  gazed  at  her.  It  was 
a  new  bond,  but  it  was  the  strongest  one  now  left 
between  us,  and  it  did  not  have  to  be  forced  on  my 
side.  I  was  never  tired  of  looking  in  that  little  face 
and  studying  its  unfamiliar  expressions ;  —  Nanny's 
child  with  so  little  of  Nanny  that  I  could  see  in  her. 
An  exquisite  accident,  was  it?  —  or  a  combination 
beyond  the  reach  of  accident? 

Mrs.  Aylesford  had  found  a  nurse-girl,  such  as  the 
neighborhood  afforded,  for  Nanny,  to  save  sheer  moil- 
ing and  toiling.  I  was  sure  this  little  nursemaid  was 
being  watched  —  not  with  the  eye  of  a  hawk  nor  a 
hen,  but  a  young  mother's  eye,  wan  and  a  trifle  wild 
at  times.  My  Nanny,  as  I  remember,  had  rather  a 
hunted  look  in  those  days.  I  had  seen  Essie  with  her 
baby  problems  and  now  I  saw  Nanny  who  took  hers 
so  differently,  with  such  passionate  submergence,  and 
so  little  of  Essie's  almost  masculine  humor  and  phi- 
losophy. The  babies,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  were  do- 
ing about  equally  well,  and  I  wondered  which  of  the 
mothers  in  the  long  run  would  pay  the  highest  price 
for  her  own  experience.  It  was  easy  to  see  there  must 
be  a  price  for  anything  as  precious  as  that  little 
Phoebe.  It  was  the  most  remarkable  reproduction  of 
the  hawk-eye  with  all  the  predatoriness  left  out,  and 

25 


EDITH  BONHAM 

with  a  mouth  so  sweet  that  it  set  one  guessing  what, 
as  to  a  mouth,  the  Maclay  mustache  concealed  under 
its  close-fitting  curves. 

The  little  side-road  below  the  mill  was  now  the 
favorite  baby-carriage  promenade.  Here  on  certain 
mornings  Nanny  and  I  used  to  pace  up  and  down,  I 
at  her  side  silent  or  reading,  while  she  wheeled  the 
baby  slowly  to  sleep,  sometimes  softly  singing  as  she 
walked.  The  nursemaid  would  be  doing  her  bits  of 
baby  washing  which  her  aunt,  Mary  Martin,  said  she 
"  had  a  right  to  do,"  a  way  of  enforcing  the  idea  that 
it  was  part  of  her  legitimate  work.  It  was  Mary's 
pride  that  one  of  her  own  blood  should  not  shirk  in 
this  her  first  "  situation  "  which  Mary  had  procured 
for  her.  When  the  baby  slept  we  would  seat  our- 
selves on  our  talking-stones  under  the  willows  by  the 
wall  with  the  baby  carriage  near  us,  its  back  to  the 
breeze.  Nanny  would  relax  and  a  different  look  come 
into  her  eyes,  >and  she  would  bring  out,  chapter  by 
chapter,  passages  of  her  life  in  absence  which  she  had 
glossed  over  or  purposely  omitted  in  writing  to  me. 
Yet  always  with  that  slight  veil  between  us  —  her 
weariness,  or  wifely  abstraction.  I  tried  to  make  al- 
lowance for  a  man  in  the  back  of  her  thoughts,  a  man 
I  had  never  seen.  .  .  .  And  here  we  had  the  conver- 
sation which  made  this  visit  memorable  and  begins 
my  story,  or  that  part  of  Nanny's  story  which  I  call 
mine. 

Her  husband  I  knew  had  business  like  any  ordi- 
nary mortal :  he  owned  in  part  and  managed  wholly 
certain  mines  near  a  mountain  town  called  Silver 

26 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

City,  though  the  mines  were  gold  mines.  I  had  per- 
sistently thought  of  Nanny  among  these  mountains 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Silver  City  was  not  the  ad- 
dress on  her  letters.  But  snow-capped  distances  be- 
tween places  "  out  West "  mean  nothing  to  a  New 
Yorker  across  the  continent.  I  had  ventured  that 
morning  to  tease  her  a  little  with  my  romantic  theory 
of  her  wooing  and  evanishment;  I  even  called  her 
captor  the  Black  Douglas,  with  whom  they  threat- 
ened Lowland  babies,  as  we  read  in  **  Tales  of  a 
Grandfather."  She  laughed  a  little ;  she  was  not  dis- 
pleased. So,  I  thought,  if  any  of  it  is  true,  it  is  true 
in  a  way  that  does  not  hurt. 

"He  can't  help  his  name,  you  know.  It's  his 
mother's  maiden  name.  There  are  hundreds  of  Doug- 
lases in  British  Columbia  where  she  came  from.  And 
he 's  not  such  a  *  black '  character  —  he  's  quite  a  pro- 
tector in  his  way.  /  feel  safe  with  him  1 " 

"Which  also  goes  with  the  feudal  idea,"  I  said. 

"Feudal!"  she  laughed.  "You  don't  know  the 
country  I "  As  we  seemed  to  be  talking  at  cross-pur- 
poses, she  presently  changed  the  subject. 

"You  know  we  live  —  or  /  live  —  now,  in  a  most 
ordinary  fashion.  We  have  given  up  our  dream  of  a 
house  on  the  mesa." 

The  "mesa?"  Either  I  had  missed  one  of  her  let- 
ters or  I  had  forgotten  inexcusably.  I  was  silent,  wait* 
ing  for  my  cue. 

"  I  must  have  written  you  about  our  land  out  on 
the  mesa?  The  'Doldrums,'  we  called  it,  because  we 
were  pretty  much  becalmed  there,  waiting  for  our 

27 


EDITH  BONHAM 

water.  It  was  to  have  come  from  an  irrigation  scheme 
that  Douglas  had  great  faith  in,  or  of  course  he 
would  n't  have  spent  so  much  money  preparing  our 
land.  We  had  a  desert-claim  and  a  timber-culture 
and  a  homestead  under  it,  and  a  house  I  To  hold 
down  a  homestead  claim  you  have  to  swear  to  con- 
tinued residence  there  for  the  time  the  law  requires. 
Where  a  man  has  his  washing  done  is  one  definition, 
I  believe,  of  his  home.  Douglas  left  his  washing  when 
he  came  down." 

Nanny  laughed;  but  I  exclaimed:  "Why  Nanny, 
I  never  heard  of  that  I  Did  you  live  there,  alone?" 

"  Oh,  dear  I  I  had  plenty  of  people.  The  plough 
teams  had  their  camp  below  the  bluff.  There  were 
men  building  wire-fence  and  putting  up  the  windmill. 
There  were  others  grading  in  front  of  the  house  for 
our  lawn  —  raising  a  horrible  dust.  Dick  Grant  was 
there  ofl  and  on ;  he  had  charge  of  the  work  on  all 
the  claims  —  carrying  water  to  the  trees  we  had 
planted  to  be  ready  for  the  canal  when  it  came; 
otherwise  we  should  have  lost  a  year.  We  had  fifty 
acres  of  wheat  in  one  field  below  the  mesa.  Oh,  there 
was  a  lot  of  work !  I  have  never  seen  so  much  work 
done  on  land  in  so  short  a  time  —  I  used  to  wish 
father  could  be  there  to  watch  it:  not  afterwards, 
though.  The  canal  was  down  to  within  two  miles  of 
us;  the  dust  from  the  scraper  teams  was  in  plain 
sight  from  our  house.  Some  of  it  occasionally  blew 
over  us !  Then  there  was  trouble  with  the  financial 
end  of  things ;  nobody  was  paid  —  the  contractors 
took  the  work  as  far  as  it  was  done,  on  a  *  lien,'  and 

28 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

the  company  subsided  for  a  time.  It  meant  months 
of  waiting  —  perhaps  years,  and  we  couldn't  wait. 
We  had  shot  our  bolt.  We  were  done.  Everything 
*  died  on  us '  as  Mary  says  when  she  has  bad  luck 
with  her  young  turkeys  in  wet  weather.  Nothing  was 
wet  with  us.  Dry,  dry !  —  acres  of  baby  trees ;  the 
little  poplars  we  had  planted  by  the  house  that  had 
come  out  in  leaf,  —  our  half-mile  of  them,  between  the 
wheat-fields,  to  the  gate.  Such  a  lovely  drive  it  would 
have  been,  after  the  brown  valley  between  us  and 
town  I  Then  our  house  on  the  bluff  with  its  spire  of 
poplars,  and  the  land  going  back  as  you  climbed, 
and  last  of  all  the  mountain-line — the  Owyhees. 
Such  a  home!  ...  It  was  not  to  be,"  she  ended 
quietly.  "We  saw  our  leaves  turn  yellow  in  April; 
every  tree  died  as  soon  as  the  May  winds  began  to 
blow.  There  was  no  rain  that  spring  and  even  the 
wheat  that  had  sprouted,  our  faith  crop,  died." 

"  But  that  was  tragedy  I  —  no ;  you  never  wrote  me 
anything  of  this." 

"Well ;  I  was  rather  worn  out  with  it :  perhaps  I 
did  n't  write.  One  would  have  to  be  there  to  know 
what  it  means  —  what  it  meant  to  the  man  who  did 
it  all  and  saw  it  fail.  He  did  it  for  me  —  because  I 
don't  like  to  live  in  little  towns.  So  you  can  imagine 
I  was  n't  very  proud  of  it.  And  now  he  has  to  be  bus- 
ier than  ever  at  the  mines,  and  I  live  in  a  square  white 
house  on  a  corner  lot  in  Boise  City.  There  is  nothing 
interesting  about  it  except  that  it  was  built  by  a  Cath- 
olic priest  who  died  there  much  loved,  and  it 's  called 
the  *  Father  Lanfrey  house.' " 


EDITH  BONHAM 

"But  tell  me  about  this  Boise  City?  How  far  is  it 
from  your  mesa  and  your  mines  ?  '^ 

Nanny  answered  categorically,  "  Three  miles  from 
the  mesa  and  sixty  from  the  mines.  That  is  rather 
far  for  one's  husband,  but  there  is  no  place  for  me  up 
there — with  a  baby.  I  should  n't  feel  safe.  And  Boise 
is  the  purchasing  center  for  the  mines.  So  we  live 
—  and  move  —  and  have  our  sort  of  being.  You  see 
I  thrive  on  it  1 " 

Ah,  do  you  ?  I  thought. 

"  It  sounds  surprisingly  real  even  to  me,  as  you  tell 
it.  I  see  why  your  Protector  of  the  Poor  must  need 
that  kind  of  an  eye  and  that  soldier's  jaw  I  've  been 
accusing  him  of,  if  that 's  the  sort  of  thing  he 's  out 
there  to  put  through." 

*•  I  did  n't  say  he 's  a  *  Protector  of  the  Poor,'  he 's 
a  protector  of  me,"  Nanny  laughed.  "  And  his  things 
don't  always  go  through.  But  he  stands  it:  his  *jaw, 
does  that  much  for  him.  When  he  comes  home  with 
a  certain  fixed  look  of  rather  more  than  usual  cheer- 
fulness, I  expect  to  hear  after  awhile  that  he 's  had  a 
blow  of  some  kind.  He  never  tells  me  at  once  —  not 
till  he 's  shown  me  that  it  does  n't  matter.  The  one 
thing  I  do  need  and  that  he  can't  give  me,"  Nanny 
went  on  rapidly  forestalling  my  tacit  sympathy,  "  is 
an  angel  woman  of  some  kind  whom  I  could  love  a 
litde  and  trust  a  good  deal,  who  would  love  my  litde 
Phcebe  and  not  spoil  her  and  do  crazy  things  to 
her  behind  my  back.  Then  I  should  be  free  to  take 
breath  now  and  then.  I  could  go  with  Douglas  when 
he  wants  me  on  his  trips.  Sometimes  he  goes  to  ex- 

30 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

amine  mines  and  I  don't  see  him,  and  hardly  hear 
from  him,  in  some  of  the  places,  for  weeks.  I  could 
go  anywhere  —  but  not  if  I  have  to  leave  Phoebe.  I 
see  no  prospect  of  any  change  —  seeing  any  more 
of  each  other  —  for  years,  unless  this  angel  were 
raised  up  for  us.  I  suppose  there  are  such  persons  as 
highly  recommended  governesses.  I  have  thought 
of  writing  to  Mrs.  Young-Fulton.  But  it  would  bring 
gray  hairs  choosing  among  a  list  of  strangers,  and 
our  life  would  be  a  severe  test  for  an  Eastern  girl. 
It  might  not  be  a  relief  —  only  an  added  strain." 

Nanny's  own  voice  sounded  so  strained  as  she 
said  this  that  involuntarily  I  turned  to  look  at  her. 
She  looked  at  me  and  blushed  because  I  had  seen 
tears  in  her  eyes.  Neither  of  us  spoke  for  a  moment. 
A  vision  of  something  which  might  happen  in  the 
future  —  my  own  future  that  I  had,  for  good  reason, 
begun  to  think  about  —  flashed  into  my  mind  ;  some- 
thing rather  calculating  in  one  way,  but  it  sank  very 
sweetly  into  my  heart.  A  vision  seen  through  Nanny's 
tears  could  not  be  all  of  self. 

"  I  'm  very  much  intrigued  with  your  Boise  City 
and  your  mesa  and  your  mines,"  I  began  rather 
heavily  approaching  my  scheme.  "  These  are  places 
like  none  that  I  have  ever  seen  or  ever  shall  see, 
unless  you  '11  let  me  come  out  there  some  day  —  if 
it  should  turn  out  just  right  for  both  of  us  ?  Do  you 
think  you  could  *  love  me  a  litde '  and  trust  me  a 
little  —  after  I  had  learned  things  ?  I  should  have 
to  learn  a  good  deal.  But  one  thing  I  should  n't  have 
to  learn  ■—  to  love  this  litde  Phoebe  1 "  I  kept  my  face 

31 


EDITH  BONHAM 

away  from  Nanny,  looking  at  the  sleeping  child.  I 
dared  not  meet  her  eyes  after  what  I  had  said.  But 
when  I  did  she  gazed  at  me  a  moment  —  then  her 
head  sank  between  her  hands. 

'*  Edith,  Edith  !  Don't  tempt  me,  dear,  unless  you 
mean  it!" 

My  heart  gave  an  answering  sob.  Heaven  knows 
—  I  could  not  have  told  her — what  a  wrench  it 
meant  in  my  own  life,  that  proposal  I  She  was  quiet, 
and  then  we  were  both  laughing. 

"You — in  Boise  City!  You'd  say  anything  to 
make  me  happy."  (She  pronounced  it  "  Bo5^-see.") 

**  I  don't  mean  now,  of  course." 

"You  simply  mean  you 'd  like  to?  —  only  it  can 
never  be." 

"  No ;  I  mean  a  good  deal  more  than  that.  It 
might  surely  be,  so  far  as  I  *m  concerned.  But  it 
would  have  to  be  right  for  several  other  people  — 
and  it 's  long,  sometimes,  before  every  thing  is  all 
right  for  everybody.  A  time  might  come  —  one  has 
to  think  of  the  future,  with  a  dear  father  who  never 
thinks  of  anything  but  the  present.  And  who  is  n't 
very  well." 

"  I  know,"  Nanny  sighed.  "  But  your  father  is 
years  younger  than  mine;  my  father  is  seventy- 
two." 

"  My  father  will  never  be  an  old  man,"  I  an- 
swered. "There  has  been  an  examination  —  certain 
rules  must  be  kept  from  now  on.  They  won't  be. 
That  is  all." 

"  Yes ;  I  can  imagine  ! "  Nanny  cried.  "  To  sit  by 

32 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

helpless  and  watch  a  life  you  love  being  steadily  mis- 
treated—  shortened  —  I  I  suppose  it  is  diet?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  diet,  hang  it  1  How  I  hate  the  human 
liver !" 

**  It  behaves  —  if  you  take  it  young  and  give  it  a 
chance.  But  even  when  you  do,  and  it's  your  own 
child  absolutely  in  your  own  hands,  you  can  hardly 
keep  the  rules  —  and  keep  anything  else  I  Look  at 
me  with  my  dear  family  I  How  lovingly  they  fight 
against  me,  how  skeptical  they  are.  And  they  are 
rather  above  the  average  in  this  place,  not  excep- 
tionally prejudiced.  They  bear  with  me  because  I  am 
their  child.  Then  take  a  town  like  Boise  and  persons 
who  are  not  above  the  average  even  there,  who 
have  never  heard  of  you  or  your  rules,  and  imagine 
what  they  think  of  me  when  I  try  to  make  them  — 
not  understand,  but  simply  keep  those  rules  I  I  don't 
try.  I  trust  no  one  —  and  yet  I  have  to  trust  —  all 
the  ones  I  cannot  see.  Sometimes  I  wish  my  eyes 
had  never  been  opened  !  " 

"  Who  opened  them,  dear  ?  " 

"  An  army  doctor  at  the  Post  —  Boise  Barracks. 
They  are  very  good  —  this  one  better  than  most,  a  real 
student.  When  it 's  done  it 's  done.  You  can't  shut 
your  eyes  to  your  own  child.  My  fear  is  getting  ill 
myself  and  having  no  one  to  leave  Phoebe  to  but  those 
women  who  go  out  to  nurse ;  I  don't  call  them  nurses." 

"  Ah,  Nanny ;  you  have  lived  a  great  deal  since 
we  sat  here  last  —  and  talked  of  such  different  things  I 
Silly  chits  that  we  were." 

"  No,  no  ;  it  was  the  dearest  time —the  time  of  my 

33 


EDITH  BONHAM 

whole  life  I  could  not  spare  !  Out  West,  I  've  gone 
round  and  round  like  a  straw  in  an  eddy.  That  is  n't 
the  West,  though, — it's  only  me.  But  I'm  learn- 
ing. Phoebe  has  never  had  a  sick  day  in  her  —  oh, 
I  must  not  boast  I  Come !  let 's  talk  about  you. 
I  've  been  going  to  ask  —  do  you  leave  marriage  out 
of  your  future  altogether  ?  Who  knows  but  you  may 
pop  ofi  some  day  as  your  sister  did,  before  any  one 
can  say  *boo'  I  " 

**  It  will  be  *  boo  to  a  goose,'  indeed,  if  ever  I  go 
off  as  Essie  did.  Not  that  you  could  blame  her  if  you 
knew  Jack.  But  she  was  in  her  *  teens.'  " 

"  Are  the  twenties  so  much  safer  ?  " 

"  My  twenties  are.  And  I  'm  rather  a  cynic  about 
genius  in  a  husband.  They're  all  about  our  path, 
you  know.  Strong,  simple  men  don't  come  my  way 
so  much  —  nothing  simple  ever  does  I  It  would  be 
such  a  rest  to  have  just  one  thing  to  do  —  a  straight- 
ahead  job  of  that  kind — "  We  were  both  gazing  at 
Nanny's  child. 

She  put  her  arm  around  me.  "  If  it  could  be  you  — 
out  there  with  us  I  I  should  n't  be  thinking  only  of 
the  times  when  I  could  run  ofT  and  play." 

**  That  word  *  us '  holds  the  chief  difficulty,"  I  re- 
minded her.  **  Your  husband  might  find  a  stranger 
less  of  a  nuisance  on  the  whole." 

**  No  :  you  two  would  get  on  in  your  offish  fashion. 
If  you  like  strong  and  simple  men,  there  you  are  I 
You  would  never  like  him  less  than  you  did  at  first  — 
which  might  not  be  much  —  and  he  would  accept  you 
as  if  he  had  known  you  all  his  life.  He  might  be  a 

34 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

little  afraid  of  you  till  he  saw  you,  but  he  would  n't 
miss  the  point  —  not  one  thing  about  you  would  es- 
cape him.  And  with  you  around,  he  'd  see  a  side  of 
me  —  that  he's  never  seen  before!"  She  looked  a 
little  startled  after  saying  this.  "You  know,"  she 
added,  "  I  never  talk  to  any  one  as  I  do  to  you  I  " 

**  As  you  did,"  I  corrected. 

"As  I  shall  again.  But  I  should  n't  care  for — well, 
I  don't  much  like  talking  men,  though  your  father 
would  bowl  any  one  over !  My  man  does  n't  talk 
about  what  he 's  going  to  do,  and  he  does  n't  talk 
about  what  he  has  done,  and  when  he  has  tried  and 
failed,  it 's  not  worth  while  to  talk  about  that  either. 
Theories  of  life  he  leaves  alone.  Art  he  knows  noth- 
ing about.  He  reads  a  great  deal,  technical  books  — 
he  hardly  has  time  for  much  else  —  and  the  papers. 
So  you  see  if  silence  is  restful,  I  have  a  good  deal  of 
it.  You  would  rest  me  in  another  way.  Did  you 
ever  hear  such  egotism  I " 

"  But  if  this  is  to  be  serious,  we  must  be  sound  on 
that  very  point  —  the  three  personalities  in  the  case. 
And  one  other  point.  I  shall  never  leave  papa  — 
while  he  is  supposed  to  need  me,  however  little  I 
can  do.  By  that  time  Phoebe  will  be  a  big  girl  for 
such  lessons  as  I  could  give  her." 

"  The  very  kind  I  want !  "  said  Nanny.  "  I  don't 
want  one  of  Mrs.  Young-Fulton's  kind  with  a  college 
diploma.  I  want  —  what  little  royalties  have,  a — lady 
of  the  realm.  I  shall  reverse  my  dear  parents'  method 
with  me.  I  don't  want  to  anchor  my  child :  I  want  to 
give  her  wings  1" 

35 


EDITH  BONHAM 

"  Do  you  connect  wings  with  *  Tittle  royalties '?  "  I 
laughed  at  her. 

"  I  connect  you  —  with  everything  I  want  for  my 
Phoebe.  If  one  could  only  have  what  one  wants  in 
this  world  without  making  some  one  else  pay  the 
price  I" 

**  Only  children,  and  then  you  pay  the  price  1 "  I 
said. 

And  she  added,  **  I  suppose  that 's  why  they  are 
such  blessed  things  to  have." 

How  she  had  been  dwelling  oh  and  dreaming  of 
these  futures,  —  the  mother  of  little  Phcebe,  one  year 
old  I  "  I  'm  dying  to  have  you  see  it  all,  to  see  how 
you  will  take  it.  Just  as  you  used  to  say  you  'd  love 
to  take  me  abroad." 

"  Suppose  you  had  gone  with  us  to  Normandy  that 
summer  when  you  did  this  ?  It  was  the  closest  shave 
you  ever  had  in  your  life  ! " 

"  I  can't  imagine  it.  I  can't  think  of  myself,  see  my- 
self anywhere  or  anyhow  but  just  as  I  am.  My  cares 
look  like  tragedies,  perhaps,  when  I  pour  them  all 
out  like  a  baby  this  way,  but  I  like  my  cares  better 
than  I  should  like  being  careless  now.  I  even  long 
sometimes  to  be  back  there  —  the  place  itself  haunts 
me,  much  as  I  have  thought  I  hated  it.  You  will  see  1 
If  you  ever  see  those  desert  plains,  night  and  morn- 
ing, day  after  day —  you  '11  know  what  I  mean." 

Nanny  sat  silent  a  while  longer  with  her  cheek  on 
her  hand  musing,  I  thought,  rather  happily,  and  I 
was  happy  thinking  I  had  had  something  to  do  with 
her  peaceful  face.  The  baby  began  to  stir  in  her  car- 

36 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

riage  and  Nanny  jogged  it  a  litde  and  looked  at  her 
watch. 

"Well,  honey,'*  she  said,  rising  as  we  saw  the 
nursemaid  coming  towards  us,  "  there  is  one  thing  I 
think  this  will  do  for  you.  Give  you  a  rest  from  all 
the  egotists  except  me,  and  all  the  Talk  except  Mine. 
And  it 's  a  great  place  for  continuity.  You  can  keep 
on  with  one  train  of  thought  a  very  long  time.'* 

"  How  strange  to  say  *  can '  and  *  will '  instead  of 
*  might '  —  and  not  an  hour  ago  we  had  neither  of  us 
thought  of  such  a  thing  I  "  said  I. 

"  Oh,  I  had  1 "  Nanny  blushed.  "  But  I  do  think  I  am 
treating  Phoebe  as  if  she  were  a  little  crown  princess, 
asking  you  to  be  her  governess  I " 

**  But  you  did  n't  I  I  asked  first,  remember.  On  my 
own  head  be  it." 

We  agreed  for  obvious  reasons  not  to  speak  of  our 
plan  in  its  present  vagueness,  even  to  Nanny's  mother, 
though  Nanny  was  good  enough  to  say  it  would  make 
her  very  happy.  I  could  see  it  had  made  my  dear 
girl  if  not  happier  more  rested  —  more  let  down. 
Sometimes  she  would  sigh  sofdy  to  herself  with  a  little 
smile  and  look  at  me  as  if  we  had  a  very  warm  secret 
between  us. 


Ill 

How  should  it  ever  have  entered  my  calculations 
that  anything  but  death,  his  death  or  mine,  would 
have  parted  me  from  my  father  ?  Yet  we  parted,  and 
he  did  it.  It  was  done  in  a  word  — as  he  might  have 
kissed  me  good-night  and  gone  to  a  play  and  left  me 
at  home  alone,  for  that  evening  only.  That  was  his 
way  of  treating  a  grave  decision  when  it  was  forced 
upon  him. 

Four  years  had  passed  since  that  May  visit  and 
my  talks  with  Nanny  under  the  Aylesford  willows. 
She  had  not  been  home  in  the  interval  nor  had  I 
gone  up  there  again.  My  little  pupil  in  the  West 
must  be  a  ripe  age,  I  thought,  for  such  lessons  as  I 
could  give  her.  As  time  passed  I  had  felt  less  sure 
of  myself  as  to  that  wild  proposition,  less  able  to 
count  on  my  nerves  —  but  that  was  for  reasons  not 
connected  with  time.  I  was  only  twenty-seven. 

The  picture-market  was  at  a  low  ebb,  even  for  us, 
that  winter.  On  the  other  hand,  our  family  had  in- 
creased by  one  exigeant  member.  He  was  an  old 
political  chum  of  papa's ;  they  had  called  each  other 
"brothers  in  Mazzini "  in  the  great  days  of  United 
Italy.  Papa  was  in  England  at  the  time  —  I  forget 
what  the  family  were  doing  over  there  ;  but  he  was 
young  —  as  the  captain  was.  Some  people  are  spoiled 
by  prosperity  and  some  by  adversity  :  Captain  Nashe 

38 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

had  been  spoiled  by  both,  and  still  he  was  a  rather 
captivating  person  if  you  did  not  see  too  much  of 
him.  He  turned  up  most  inopportunely  (I  had  just 
told  our  "  general "  that  she  must  expect  henceforth  to 
do  the  table-linen ;  as  she  was  a  poor  servant  she  sub- 
mitted, but  was  feeling  put  upon)  and  his  visits  never 
were  short. 

The  captain  was  an  Englishman,  but  he  did  not 
claim  to  have  held  a  commission  in  the  British  army ; 
indeed  his  military  title  may  have  been  a  fiction,  or 
a  bit  of  sentiment.  He  had  been  one  of  Garibaldi's 
aides,  and  he  used  to  boast  of  the  kiss  his  hero  chief 
had  knelt  to  give  him  when  his  comrades  left  him, 
grievously  wounded,  on  that  desperate  retreat  through 
Central  Italy,  where  he  lay  hid  for  weeks  nursed  by 
poor  peasants  while  the  Austrians  were  scouring  the 
forests  of  Ravenna.  That  would  have  been  in  '49. 
He  was  out  again  with  the  Red  Shirts  in  '59  and  '60. 
Papa  had  known  him  all  those  years  and  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  helping  him  out  in  his  periods  of  scarcity 
when  one  cannot  live  on  gallant  memories ;  he  said 
he  was  a  beautiful  fellow  in  his  youth,  one  of  the 
handsomest  of  Englishmen.  No  doubt  he  had  suf- 
fered and  made  sacrifices,  and  no  doubt  he  did  love 
Italy.  Tears  would  fill  his  eyes  when  he  read  aloud 
to  us :  — 

"  '  Each  of  the  heroes  around  us  has  fought  for  his  land  and  line, 
But  thou  hast  fought  for  a  stranger,  in  hate  of  a  wrong  not 
thine!'" 

We  little  girls,  listening,  thought  it  scarcely  seemed 
quite  modest,  but  the  captain  did  not  pretend  in  that 

39 


EDITH  BONHAM 

way.  He  bragged  of  his  adventures  openly.  What 
was  there  better  worth  talking  about  in  the  trumpery 
city  of  New  York,  in  our  studio-existence  which  he 
patronized  grandly  I  As  for  the  poems  he  favored  us 
with,  seldom  waiting  to  be  asked,  he  certainly  could 
read  in  his  way  magnificently.  Also  he  could  sing, 
in  a  fine  rolling  barytone  without  much  cultivation. 
Sea-chanteys  and  soldier-choruses,  and  the  wild 
Hungarian  folk-songs  that  were  little  known  then 
on  this  side,  while  papa,  who  played  in  a  manner  as 
magnetic  as  the  captain's  singing,  woke  imaginary 
drum-beats  or  hoof-beats  as  the  song  called  for,  in 
big  male  chords  on  the  piano. 

The  piano  was  upstairs  in  the  studio  and  behind  it 
stood  a  life-sized  lay-figure  in  Roman  draperies  with 
perhaps  a  casual  hat  of  papa's  dropped  on  its  bald 
wooden  pate.  Whoever  moved  it  often  left  it  in  gro- 
tesque attitudes.  Papa,  who  used  it,  never  could  see 
how  funny  the  lay-figure  could  be  I  We  little  girls 
one  evening  disgraced  ourselves,  much  as  we  loved 
the  music,  by  falling  into  smothered  shrieks  of  giggles 
over  the  tableau  they  three  made :  the  captain  singing 
in  great  form,  erect  behind  papa  at  the  piano,  neither 
of  them  aware  of  the  lay-figure  in  the  corner,  appar- 
ently in  contortions  of  agony,  throwing  up  its  hands 
for  help. 

We  had  our  own  reasons  for  disliking  the  cap- 
tain — reasons  such  as  children  do  not  tell.  As  young 
girls  we  were  quick  to  see  the  added  look  of  care 
his  visits  brought  to  our  mother's  face.  It  was  unfor- 
tunate that  papa's  clothes  fitted  him.  If  there  were 

40 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

any  choice  between  two  suits  (of  papa's)  his  brother 
in  Mazzini  would  presently  be  seen  wearing  the 
smarter  one.  He  gave  up  pipes  when  he  came  to  us 
and  smoked  papa's  best  cigars  remarking  plaintively 
that  he  could  n't  afford  "  cheroots  "  of  that  brand  him- 
self. Neither  could  papa  I  We  girls  knew  that  we 
could  have  no  new  frocks  when  the  captain  dropped 
down  on  us.  On  this  visit,  the  dishes  he  particularly 
liked  were  those  papa  was  now  forbidden  to  touch ; 
he  asked  for  them  at  table,  before  papa,  if  they  were 
omitted  from  our  necessarily  restricted  menus.  He 
criticized  the  wine  which  his  host  selected  and  was 
forbidden  to  touch,  but  with  the  captain's  rallying  eye 
upon  him  and  the  glass  of  friendship  raised,  too  often 
my  dear  daddy  would  give  in.  On  these  occasions  I 
may  say  that  I  hated  the  captain. 

On  his  arrival  that  autumn,  about  the  time  we  were 
getting  our  coal  in  and  groaning  at  the  bill,  Essie 
came  over  promptly  to  hold  an  indignation  meeting. 
We  scolded  and  vowed  what  should  and  must  be 
done,  and  then  we  fell  a-laughing  over  the  wild  ab- 
surdity of  fleas  as  small  financially  as  we  were  having 
lesser  fleas  to  bite  them.  The  idea  of  papa  support- 
ing that  magnificent  and  debonair  figure  of  a  man  — 
but  the  whole  absurdity  became  tragic  when  it  in- 
volved papa's  health  and  his  defiance  of  all  rules. 
The  captain  was  like  a  naughty  boy  who  fears  no 
rod  of  discipline  at  home,  seducing  another  along  the 
path  that  leads  to  a  thrashing.  He  had  no  reason  to 
dread  consequences,  for  he  left  them  to  others  to  take. 
His  own  family,  he  complained,  had  turned  him  off 

41 


EDITH  BONHAM 

for  nothing  but  his  principles  —  his  incorrigible  ac- 
tivities in  shipping  arms  and  men  from  England  dur- 
ing the  glorious  wars.  In  my  opinion  he  cared  no 
more  for  the  principle  of  Italian  independence  than 
he  did  for  the  Pope's  toe. 

Our  relatives  in  the  city  looked  on  with  disgust  at 
papa's  gullibility.  I  don't  think  he  was  wholly  de- 
ceived, but  criticism  of  a  guest  and  a  penniless  guest 
he  would  not  tolerate,  and  when  he  was.  finally  taken 
aside  by  his  sister,  —  the  nicest  aunt  we  had  I  —  and 
told  that  the  captain  was  not  a  proper  person  to  be 
domesticated  in  the  house  with  two  unchaperoned 
girls  (this  was  before  Essie's  marriage),  he  took  such 
serious  umbrage  that  it  caused  a  definite  breach. 
And  this,  too,  we  laid  to  the  captain.  We  needed 
Aunt  Essie — she  had  not  always  been  very  compre- 
hending, but  was  invariably  kind.  We  did  not  care 
very  much  for  the  old  ball-gowns  she  gave  us,  nor  for 
her  state  dinners,  especially  when  she  did  not  send 
her  carriage  for  us ;  but  we  liked  her  tremendously. 
Rich  relatives,  as  Essie  said,  are  needed  in  a  family 
like  ours  brought  up  to  despite  wealth.  ...  I  shall 
not  go  into  the  reasons  why,  as  we  grew  older,  Essie 
and  I  knew  that  the  relatives  were  right,  and  that  the 
captain  ought  to  have  been  turned  out  of  our  studio- 
nest  without  mercy  and  long  before  the  winter  when 
he  came  and  egregiously  lived  on  us. 

With  no  picture-sales  worth  mentioning  and  his 
ancient  comrade  on  his  back,  papa  was  forced  to 
stoop  to  black-and-white.  He  took  orders  for  that 
thing  he  ridiculed,  a  "gift-book,"  and  he  made  illus- 

42 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

trations  for  magazine-stories  which  he  felt  it  an  afflic- 
tion to  read.  Sometimes  he  barely  did  read  them  and 
drove  the  authors  wild  with  the  liberties  he  took  in 
his  interpretations  of  their  text.  Once  he  drew  a  Brit- 
ish naval  officer  with  a  mustache.  When  I  laughed  at 
him,  he  said,  "  How  should  /  know  the  fellow  was  in 
the  navy?"  I  pointed  out  that  if  he  had  read  the 
story  he  'd  have  known,  that  fact  being  the  crux  of 
the  whole  tale.  He  considered  himself  meanly  paid 
for  all  these  botherations.  The  captain,  with  not  very 
convincing  disinterestedness,  supported  the  idea. 

**  Pot-boilers  are  all  right,  my  dear  Bonny,  if  they 
boil  the  pot  I "  And  he  would  counsel  me  not  to  feed 
my  father's  sacrifices  to  his  family  on  such  tough 
corned-beef  as  we  had  had  —  say  on  Saturday.  **  Give 
it  to  the  poor,  my  dear,  give  it  to  the  poor !  I  have 
noticed  the  meat  on  your  father's  table  is  not  what 
it  used  to  be  in  your  mother's  time,  my  dear  Edith. 
You  should  go  to  the  stalls  yourself  with  your  maid, 
and  try  the  effect  of  your  beaux  yeux.  Of  course  no 
young  lady  nowadays  can  tell  one  cut  from  another. 
You  must  either  charm  your  tradesmen  —  " 

**  Or  pay  them,"  I  supplied. 

He  was  seated  as  he  said  this,  eating  his  eleven 
o'clock  breakfast  alone  by  the  studio-fire.  It  was 
Monday  morning ;  he  had  declined  to  take  it  in  the 
dining-room  which  he  said  was  cold  and  smelled  of 
wash-boilers.  Papa  was  drawing  me  for  one  of  his 
illustrations,  in  my  best  ball-gown.  Without  the  ball 
I  found  it  chilly,  especially  as  the  captain  in  a  great 
armchair  kept  all  the  fire  to  himself.  He  turned  clean 

43 


EDITH  BONHAM 

round  to  say  these  things  to  me  about  the  meat  on 
our  table,  his  face  flushed  with  the  heat  he  was  mo- 
nopoHzing. 

**  I  shall  give  it  to  the  poor,  certainly,"  I  retorted. 
"  We  shall  have  it  ourselves  to-day  for  luncheon." 

"  Then  pray  spare  us  a  few  poached  eggs  on  top ! " 
the  captain  begged.  "Do  you  know,"  —  he  gazed 
pensively  at  his  plate,  —  **  I  believe  this  bacon  has 
been  standing." 

**I  think  it  very  likely,"  I  laughed  rudely.  "On 
Monday  mornings — if  we  must  go  into  details — it  is 
not  an  easy  matter  in  this  house  to  keep  a  broiling- 
fire—" 

"  —  It's  not  broiled,  it's  fried,"  the  captain  retorted. 

Papa  smiled  at  our  bleak  jesting,  with  a  stern  eye 
on  my  pose. 

"  If  you  could  be  down  at  the  breakfast-hour,  cap- 
tain, your  bacon  would  suit  you  better.  And  your 
cofTee — that's  been  standing  too,  I  suppose?" 

"  It  has,"  said  the  captain  meekly,  "  but  I  refrained 
from  mentioning  it  knowing  how  sensitive  my  young 
hostess  is  to  the  comfort  of  her  father's  guest." 

"  Come,  that's  too  bad ! "  Papa  sprang  up.  " Stale 
coffee  is  vile."  He  squeezed  the  water  out  of  his 
brush  —  he  was  laying  in  the  shadows  on  my  skirt 
in  sepia  and  the  folds  must  not  be  stirred  —  and  he 
kept  me  there  without  moving  while  he  set  out  the 
Russian  cofTee-pot  and  called  downstairs  for  the  can- 
ister and  settled  the  captain  watching  his  own  cofiee 
boil.  I  boiled  already  I  One  of  my  arms  was  getting 
stiff  holding  up  a  curtain  which  also  had  folds  that 

44 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

must  not  be  changed.  This  was  all  in  the  day's  work 
for  papa,  but  I  saw  no  reason  why  I  should  ache  and 
freeze  for  the  captain,  if  he  chose  to  lie  abed  and 
growl  about  his  bacon.  I  had  become  as  small  as 
that !   These  were  my  nerves  that  winter. 

I  told  the  captain  I  hoped  that  his  cup  of  coffee 
might  tantalize  him  in  a  place  where  he  would  n't  re- 
quire it  hot.  He  had  now  got  as  much  of  the  fire  as 
he  could  stand  and  he  backed  his  chair  away  and 
turned  and  stared  at  me  deliberately.  Not  as  the  litde 
artist-brethren  stared  and  sighed  and  groaned  when 
Essie  and  I  were  posing ;  we  only  laughed  at  them. 
They  saw  not  us,  but  their  own  unapproachable  ideal 
that  we  momentarily  suggested.  The  captain's  eye 
was  not  impersonal.  It  was  moist  and  foolish,  as 
when  (as  little  girls)  he  used  to  try  to  make  us  kiss 
him  good-night  and  papa  always  supported  our  fierce 
objections.  '^-"" 

"Ye  gods.  Bonny  I  What  a  mercy  this  child  of 
yours  is  a  bit  of  a  vixen.  If  she  were  kind,  now  I 
Look  at  that  eye  over  her  shoulder  —  conceive  if  it 
should  melt !  Where  would  the  poor  wretch  be  she 
cast  it  on!"  And  he  quoted,  still  staring  and  speak- 
ing under  his  breath,  so  that  papa  working  diligently 
on  shadows  did  not  hear  him :  — 

"j        "  Not  a  drop  of  her  blood  was  human, 

Yet  she  was  made  like  a  soft,  sweet  woman." 

He  knew  that  I  knew  what  the  words  were  from : 
not  two  nights  before,  the  captain  had  picked  up 
Rossetti  and  offered  to  read  "  Eden  Bower"  to  papa 

45 


EDITH  BONHAM 

and  me,  and  I  had  taken  my  sewing  and  gone  off 
to  a  corner  of  my  own.  Whom  you  can  and  cannot 
read  certain  poems  with  is  as  much  a  test  of  the  per- 
son as  of  the  poem.  Papa  would  have  felt  these  dis- 
tinctions in  a  different  mood,  or  if  the  captain  had 
been  a  rich  relative  instead  of  a  shabby  old  friend 
going  very  fast  downhill. 

It  seems  paltry  to  speak  of  such  low  little  incidents 
now  after  all  the  softening  years.  I  only  wish  to  bring 
out  why  my  nerves  were  not  in  the  best  state,  any 
more  than  papa's  were,  for  the  decision  close  upon  us 
that  winter,  when  circumstances  pushed  us  so  near 
the  edge. 

The  captain,  I  think,  felt  my  contempt  for  his  pres- 
ence in  the  house  and  made  it  his  excuse  for  these 
insolences ;  my  manner  to  him  was  excuse  enough 
too,  I  dare  say.  He  was  getting  ready  to  take  his  re- 
venge w^henever  an  opportunity  should  present  itself. 


IV 

It  came  to  our  door,  one  evening,  in  the  guise  of 
good-fortune  and  in  the  words  of  a  friend,  who 
brought  us  the  first  news  of  papa's  selection  for  a 
magnificent  order,  and  said  he  had  had  nothing  to 
do  with  it.  But  as  he  was  one  of  the  critics  whom 
new-made  millionaires  consulted  on  important  art 
purchases,  we  doubted  his  disclaimer. 

A  great  palatial  house  was  going  up  that  winter 
which  had  been  the  talk  of  the  city.  It  was  making 
the  opportunity  of  more  than  one  of  papa's  artist- 
friends.  He  had  heard  of  their  luck  and  perhaps 
silently  envied  them  —  I  know  I  had.  And  now  papa 
was  to  have  the  crowning  chance  of  all :  the  wall- 
frescoes  for  the  great  ballroom.  The  ceiling  and  doors 
and  cornices  and  the  panels  that  held  the  magnifi- 
cent sconces  had  been  ordered  from  abroad ;  many 
famous  names  were  combined  for  the  setting  of  that 
series  which  would  be  papa's  highest  bid  for  fame. 

He  took  his  good-fortune  with  calmness,  almost 
with  condescension.  Not  so  the  captain  who  seemed 
to  visibly  swell  and  burgeon  in  the  light  of  vicarious 
prosperity.  He  quite  fawned  on  "Bonny,"  whose 
replenished  pockets  he  saw  leaking  into  his  own 
which  were  fathomless.  The  unhappy  illustrations 
were  cast  aside.  I  myself  had  the  presumption,  and 
perhaps  the  dishonesty,  to  finish  a  frontispiece  which 

47 


EDITH  BONHAM 

a  friendly  House  had  been  waiting  for  —  but  not  in 
silence  —  needed  at  once  for  the  next  issue  of  their 
magazine.  It  was  a  case  of  bad  faith  either  way. 
Papa's  drawing  was  singularly  unequal  and  when  he 
felt  lazy  and  indifferent,  as  in  this  case,  it  could  be 
extremely  bad  :  though  he  would  always  have  some 
clever  theory  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  to  account 
for  its  vagaries.  Fatuous  as  it  sounds,  it  is  a  fact  that 
my  patching-in  was  never  noticed  I  Another  drawing 
I  sent  off  without  consulting  him.  He  had  done  all 
he  ever  would  to  it ;  it  was  charming.  He  had  got 
just  what  he  wanted  and  it  behooved  some  one  to 
snatch  it  from  him  before  he  should  spoil  it  with  tired 
fussing. 

For  two  days  he  was  lost  to  existence  —  going 
back  over  his  old  sketches,  laying  them  silently  one 
by  one  aside  with  a  steadily  gathering  gloom.  If  the 
captain  interrupted  him  during  this  absorbed  scru- 
tiny he  shut  him  up  sharply  or  paid  no  attention.  The 
captain  would  smile  serenely  and  stroll  off  content  to 
wait.  The  spring  was  heading  up  that  was  to  fill  the 
distributary  channels.  I  saw  there  would  be  a  heavy 
price  to  pay  for  this  sudden  rise  in  our  prospects.  If 
it  had  not  happened,  our  incubus  would  soon,  I  think, 
have  slipped  from  us.  The  captain  was  not  over-com- 
fortable, and  he  never  liked  to  share  short  commons. 

Suddenly,  after  a  week  of  this  intense  saturation 
with  his  subject,  papa  announced  that  he  had  got 
it.  //  had  come  I  But  it  wasn't  here  —  and  he  had 
nothing  to  fit  it  in  any  of  his  old  stufT.  He  must  go 
where  the  vision  called  him.    And  then  my  heart 

48 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

went  down  like  lead  ;  for  I  saw  in  the  captain's  gloat- 
ing eye,  as  papa  unrolled  his  plan,  that  he  meant  to 
get  himself  included  in  that  search  for  the  Ideal,  and 
to  that  pair  I  could  not  make  a  third.  But  there  would 
be  something  of  a  struggle  first. 

"It"  was  a  memory  going  back  to  papa's  young 
days  when  he  had  been  a  wanderer  with  means  and 
health,  and  other  things  that  he  had  not  now.  There 
was  a  mountain,  he  said,  that  you  saw  across  a  la- 
goon, palm-fringed,  —  the  inner,  land-locked  harbor 
of  an  island  in  the  South  Pacific.  The  breakers  roared 
outside,  but  all  was  still  where  you  looked  eastward 
to  the  mountain,  and  the  light  must  be  the  shadow- 
less light  after  sunset  with  the  "  feeling "  of  a  new 
moon  behind  one  in  the  west.  And  the  people,  in 
that  ballroom,  circling  down  the  floor  would  pause  in 
their  dance  in  front  of  this  scene  filling  the  end-wall, 
opening  into  another  hemisphere,  and  giving  the 
color-key  he  wanted.  Dancers  then  were  not  draped 
like  figures  on  a  Greek  vase,  they  did  not  sway  and 
side-step  —  they  chased  the  hours  on  flying  feet  and 
their  wide  silk  skirts  swirled  out  —  rapturously,  as  we 
thought !  But  the  spirit  of  papa's  dream  was  far  back 
or  far  ahead  of  his  time.  The  scenes  on  the  walls 
his  dancers  were  to  pass  with  over-shoulder  glances, 
or  fan  themselves  in  front  of,  were  all  in  places  with 
soft-voweled  names,  between  the  lights ;  loiterers  on 
forest-paths  where  you  almost  smelled  the  heavy- 
scented  flowers  languid  in  the  gloom,  or  dancers  by 
the  light  of  beach-fires,  in  and  out  of  the  shadows, 
flower-crowned  dancers  brown  and  bacchanal.  .  .  . 

49 


EDITH  BONHAM 

To  me  it  was  sickening.  I  felt  in  it  a  sick  man's  fancy, 
a  desperate  need  to  realize  for  the  last  time  what  for 
him  was  over-past.  With  papa  alone  I  could  have  fol- 
lowed the  fatuous  but  compelling  dream.  I  knew  how 
he  must  have  longed  to  get  out  of  New  York  that 
winter ;  but  with  Captain  Nashe  of  the  party,  Tahiti 
would  be  another  **  Eden  Bower"  to  me.  There  was  a 
business  side  also  in  which  papa  needed  his  ''vixen." 
He  would  work  his  idea  over  and  over  —  changing 
his  scheme,  and  the  days  would  drift  that  brought 
him  no  nearer  to  keeping  his  contract  with  these 
people  who  would  be  waiting  for  their  ballroom. 
He  remembered  those  alluring  places  as  they  had 
welcomed  him  long  ago  to  their  feasts  and  flower- 
crowned  dances,  and  the  plunge  from  white  beaches 
into  the  moonlit  surf  it  would  give  him  a  chill  now  to 
think  of.  There  would  be  nothing  sane  or  comfort- 
able or  even  safe  for  an  elderly  gentleman  under  a 
doctor's  orders.  And  he  would  draw  on  his  price 
in  advance,  a  large  bite  out  of  the  cake  he  had  not 
earned. 

All  papa's  best  friends  tried  to  dissuade  him  from 
this  mad  journey,  but  they  handled  him  like  the 
fine  porcelain  he  was  —  and  becoming  almost  as  frag- 
ile. It  was  quite  in  vain.  He  was  as  feverish  as  a  gam- 
bler to  get  back  to  the  tables,  and  the  captain  stood 
always  at  his  elbow  urging  him  to  put  his  money  on 
the  game.  Nothing  could  suit  him  better  than  to 
leave  for  San  Francisco  and  the  tropics  just  as  our 
February  rains  begin. 

I  cannot  endure  the  memories  of  those  days  that 

50 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

preceded  our  parting ;  they  were  so  unworthy  of  what 
was  to  come.  Papa's  excitability,  his  peremptoriness, 
his  peevishness  with  me.  He  actually  quarreled  with 
me  over  the  way  I  wore  my  hair,  though  I  had  worn 
it  so  all  winter.  Girls  then  balled  their  hair  up  into  a 
chignon  at  the  back  and  chopped  it  off  in  front  into 
bangs.  Papa  suddenly  insisted  that  my  chignon 
looked  "stuffed"  (as  they  frequently  were)  or  as  if  I 
had  bought  it  and  pinned  it  on.  It  must  show  that  it 
was  hand-made  of  my  own  hair,  fresh  that  evening 
—  or  morning,  as  the  case  might  be.  And  he  declared 
I  had  been  at  my  front  hair  with  scissors.  He  was 
really  funny  I  It  was  impossible  to  discuss  anything 
with  him,  even  necessary  plans  that  concerned  my- 
self alone.  Wretched  as  it  was  to  have  such  plans,  it 
was  worse  with  the  captain  standing  by  in  secret  glee 
at  our  stupid  wrangling.  I  dare  say  papa  had  me 
somewhat  on  his  conscience,  besides  feeling  ill  and 
dreading  the  journey :  no  wonder  I  made  him  nerv- 
ous. He  would  be  constantly  arguing,  with  no  one 
now  to  oppose  him,  that  it  was  n't  a  woman's  trip ; 
no  girl  of  my  age  could  help  him  in  the  conditions 
he  would  be  amidst.  A  man  who  had  knocked  about 
the  world  like  the  captain  was  the  ideal  companion 
he  needed.  And  all  had  been  arranged  for  me  in  his 
absence  by  simply  depriving  me  of  my  home.  He  had 
proposed  to  one  of  our  artist-friends  with  a  wife  and 
family  to  take  the  house,  on  very  friendly  terms  as 
to  rent  —  they  could  not  have  done  it  otherwise.  It 
would  just  suit  their  circumstances,  and  I  of  course 
would  live  with  Essie  I  Thus  he  disposed  of  me  for  an 

51 


EDITH  BONHAM 

indefinite  time,  but  with  a  perfectly  definite  sum  to  live 
upon  (if  I  could  collect  it),  the  rent  of  the  house,  after 
certain  repairs  had  been  paid  for  and  our  two  months' 
bills  in  arrears.  I  saw  myself  going  to  brother-in-law 
Jack  for  car-fares. 


Essie  and  I  have  always  got  on  together.  I  shall 
not  deny  that  I  am  hasty  at  times,  but  Essie  is  cool 
enough  to  make  up.  Whether  her  feelings  are  better 
tempered  than  mine  or  not  as  strong,  does  not  alter 
the  fact  that  she  has  them  under  more  uniform  con- 
trol. She  does  not  rise  to  a  great  occasion  in  a  man- 
ner to  satisfy  a  demand  for  warm  partisanship ;  she 
can  be  satirical  but  she  is  always  civil,  even  to  persons 
she  dislikes.  Few  things  could  surprise  her  after  the 
sensations  her  marriage  with  Jack  Landreth  must 
have  supplied,  but  I  certainly  surprised  her  that  morn- 
ing, when  I  walked  in  with  the  news  that  papa  was 
going  to  Tahiti  with  Captain  Nashe,  that  our  house 
was  let  over  my  head,  and  that  papa's  sole  inspiration 
for  me  in  his  absence  had  been  the  assumption  that 
I  could  live  with  them  indefinitely  as  a  non-paying 
guest. 

Essie  smiled,  but  without  irony,  bless  her  I  It  was 
one  of  the  moments  which  decide  whether  one's  sis- 
ter is  a  lady  or  is  not.  She  met  my  eyes  serenely  and 
with  no  apparent  speculation  in  her  own,  though  her 
housewife's  brain  must  have  been  busy  behind  the 
sisterly  smile.  Sisterly  I  It  was  queenly !  It  was  like 
the  manner  of  a  statesman  at  some  diplomatic  crisis. 
Her  mind  was  not  revealed  :  her  response  was  perfect. 

"  I  know  how  you  must  feel,"  she  said,  "  but  we 

53 


EDITH  BONHAM 

always  understand  each  other.  If  we  don't  under- 
stand papa,  that 's  an  old  bond  too.  Of  course  he 
gets  more  mysterious  as  he  gets  older.  I  hope  he 
is  n't  counting  on  storing  any  of  his  pictures  here. 
I  have  never  been  able  to  impress  on  him  the  size  of 
this  flat.  I  don't  need  to  tell  you  which  your  room  is, 
dear.  Of  course  it  is  n't  empty.  I  shall  put  my  nurse 
in  the  cook's  room.  The  cook  will  probably  leave — " 

We  burst  into  wild  laughter,  Essie  perfectly  im- 
personal, and  I  arose  and  kissed  her  which  discom- 
posed us  both  a  little.  And  then  we  talked  with  fewer 
precautions,  Essie  frankly  with  a  considering  eye 
upon  future  stowing  ;  a  sister  and  sister's  clothes  and 
possibly  a  wagon-load  of  papa's  pictures,  heaped  upon 
her  in  her  cramped  quarters.  I  believe  she  was  a 
good  manager  with  what  she  had  to  manage  with ; 
she  went  through  some  masterly  processes  of  elimina- 
tion. Me  she  could  not  eliminate,  but  I  proposed  to 
help  a  little  towards  that  end  myself. 

"  I  '11  come  to  you  till  papa's  back  is  turned.  I  '11 
leave  my  clothes  here,  and  my  address:  that  will 
satisfy  papa.  But  I  'm  going  up  to  see  Mrs.  Ayles- 
ford  as  soon  as  I  know  if  she  can  have  me."  And  I 
told  her  my  plan.  I  could  not,  of  course,  hurl  myself 
upon  Nanny  as  I  had  been  cast  upon  a  sister's  char- 
ity, but  Mrs.  Aylesford  would  be  able  to  advise  me 
from  both  points  of  view.  I  had  not  heard  from 
Nanny  in  some  time;  her  mother  though  would  be 
in  touch  with  the  situation  "out  West."  I  said  it 
rather  quakingly. 

*'You  know,"  Essie  said,  "it's  horrid  to  have  you 

54 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

cut  loose  in  this  way ;  really  shoved  off  the  raft 
Let's  keep  afloat  all  together  or  sink  together.  The 
captain  has  pushed  you  off.  Jack  knows  things  about 
him  that  papa  ought  to  know.  He  's  a  perfectly  un- 
clubable  person." 

"Oh,  for  pity's  sake,  don't  attack  the  captain  to 
papa!  That's  been  done  too  much  already.  I'm 
twenty-seven:  it's  high  time  I  began  to  think  for 
myself  a  little.  Going  out  to  Nanny  does  n't  call  for 
great  mental  effort,  especially  as  she  thought  of  the 
plan  first.  I  may  feel  yet  that  the  captain  has  done 
me  a  good  turn." 

"  He  has  n't  done  me  a  good  turn !  I  shall  miss 
you  dreadfully.  And  I'm  jealous  of  Nanny  —  I've 
always  been  a  little  so.  Now  she  will  take  you  from 
me  altogether." 

"  There  are  things  I  fear  a  good  deal  more  than 
that,"  I  said. 

Essie  knew  and  shared  my  forebodings. 

"  I  think  you  are  wasting  a  last  chance  not  to  tell 
papa,  now.  It  might  bring  him  to  terms,  you  know. 
I  'm  sure  it  will  give  him  a  shock." 

"  Why  should  I  want  to  give  him  a  shock?" 

"But  I  think  you  ought  to  tell  him.  It's  not  like 
you  not  to.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  shall  aid  and  abet 
you  in  deceiving  him  at  the  last  moment.  Come,  you 
will  tell  him?" 

I  said  that  I  would.  And  perhaps  Essie's  "last 
chance  "  held  some  comfort  for  me  too ;  I  had  had 
much  the  same  idea,  but  had  been  afraid  to  trust  it. 
Now  I  began  to  count  upon  telling  him.    It  did  not 

55 


EDITH  BONHAM 

turn  out  as  we  had  flattered  ourselves.  Papa  inquired, 
when  I  spoke  of  my  visit,  why  the  Aylesfords  should 
suddenly  ask  me  up  at  this  disagreeable  season.  I 
told  him  I  had  asked  myself,  and,  as  I  expected,  he 
demanded  to  know  what  induced  me  to  do  such  an 
unusual  thing.  But  when  I  explained  my  ultimate 
purpose  in  going  up  there  and  what  I  hoped  it  might 
lead  to,  he  merely  sat  in  silence.  His  face  turned 
slightly  red.  He  disliked  having  his  plans  upset 
(though  they  were  my  plans),  also  his  authority 
called  in  question,  to  say  nothing  of  his  better  judg- 
ment. His  irritation  I  saw  occupied  his  mind  just  then 
more  than  any  pain  I  had  counted  on  giving  him.  I 
was  asserting  myself  in  a  manner  he  had  not  expected 
and  would  admit  no  reason  for.  He  saw  no  room  for 
pride  as  to  Jack  and  Essie.  If  I  did,  why  I  must  be 
over-proud. 

"There  is  no  room  for  ^^^^ything,  with  Jack  and 
Essie.  There's  no  room  for  me,  even  if  I  left  my 
pride  behind." 

He  did  not  hold  out  his  hand  and  say,  **Then 
come  with  me  1 "  and  give  me  a  chance  to  reply, 
"  Not  with  the  captain  1 "  There  was  no  reaction  of 
this  kind  to  the  shock,  if  shock  it  were.  Again  he 
was  silent,  and  I  saw  in  his  mobile  face,  in  one  swift, 
shirking  glance  of  his  eye  that  I  knew  every  expres- 
sion of,  that  he  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  me  —  in  this 
way,  in  any  way. 

I  was  wrong  even  to  have  thought  of  it  as  an  issue 
between  us  I  I,  brought  up  in  a  studio,  not  to  make 
allowance  for  the  mood  of  creation  I  And  the  creator 

56 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

a  sick  man,  his  nervous  strength  passing  from  him. 
He  was  like  one  in  the  embrace  of  a  powerful  drug 
just  beginning  to  sink  into  unconsciousness.  Voices 
were  distant  to  his  ear.  The  demands  of  Hfe  came 
back  only  to  tease  him.  I  was  his  last  human  respon- 
sibility: he  let  me  slip  away  and  returned  to  his 
dream. 

We  parted  on  a  drizzling  morning,  at  the  door  of 
the  carriage  that  waited  to  take  him  to  his  train.  He 
had  motioned  the  captain  to  enter  before  him ;  then 
we  stepped  back  a  little  and  he  took  my  hands.  I 
thought  he  looked  ill  and  certainly  sad.  The  face  he 
bent  down  to  me  was  pinched  and  blue  and  streaked 
with  a  color  not  of  health.  I  think  his  eyes  were 
smarting  as  he  kissed  me.  I  expected  a  word  or  two 
such  as  no  one  could  say  better — some  little  speech 
to  remember.    All  he  said  was :  — 

"  I  hope  they  won't  freeze  you  up  there  on  the 
Hudson.  Don't  go  skating  on  the  river,  alone,  will 
you !  February  ice  is  not  to  be  trusted." 

That  was  all :  he  spoke  as  if  my  visit  were  the  only 
absence  in  question.  He  kissed  the  top  of  his  cane  to 
me  from  the  cab-window.  The  captain  sat  uncovered 
and  the  last  I  saw  of  him  he  was  bowing  into  his  hat 
and  smiling,  vastly  contented  with  himself. 


VI 

They  put  me  in  the  northeast  bedroom  at  the  Ayles- 
fords',  and  Mrs.  Aylesford  begged  me  in  her  eager 
manner  of  suppressed  sympathy  to  keep  myself  "well 
wrapped  up"  while  we  made  the  passage  of  the  cold 
halls.  My  suit-case  had  been  left  in  the  lower  hall  by 
Jonas  with  a  glance  at  his  muddy  boots  which  might 
have  meant  an  apology  for  not  carrying  it  upstairs. 
There  was  no  second  maid  and  nothing  was  seen  of 
Mary  Martin  at  this  hour,  nor  did  Mary  carry  bags 
at  any  hour.  It  was  their  way  to  do  things  for  them- 
selves. Mrs.  Aylesford  and  I  had  quite  a  tussle  which 
should  get  possession  of  my  hand-satchel  and  mufE 
and  a  box  of  candy  I  had  brought — they  both  loved 
it  and  denied  themselves  and  each  other  the  indul- 
gence. I  knew  Mr.  Aylesford  would  be  up  presently, 
with  his  beaming  *' Well,  well!"  —  bringing  my  suit- 
case, when  I  should  waylay  him  with  my  sweets, 
open  at  the  top  layer,  all  chocolates. 

Dear  Mrs.  Aylesford  ran  ahead  of  me  smiling  — 
literally  ran  —  up  the  stairs,  wrapped  in  a  shawl  and 
bearing  my  muff  and  satchel  both,  having  wrested 
them  from  me.  There  was  the  same  impression  of 
energy  outlasting  the  demand  for  it,  of  a  great  good- 
will confined  in  its  manifestations,  seeking  to  replace 
the  natural  outlets  that  love  gives,  and  which  life 
towards  its  close  so  often  denies.  They  were  not  re- 

58 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

formers  or  interested  very  deeply  in  any  Movement 
or  Cause;  and  clubs,  the  resource  of  middle-aged 
mothers  nowadays  whose  children  do  not  need  them 
actively,  would  not  have  been  Mrs.  Aylesford's  ref- 
uge, I  think,  at  any  age. 

I  went  straight  to  the  window  to  look  at  my  hills 
across  the  river.  As  I  had  seen  them  last,  they,  were 
white  with  orchard-blooms  and  the  dark  points  of 
cedars  climbing  up  the  gorges  showed  against  them 
as  if  they  were  snow-banks.  Now  the  orchards  were 
all  a  mist  of  bare  boughs  and  there  was  real  snow  in 
shrinking  patches  spoiling  the  soft  purple  outlines  of 
the  hills.  The  fireplace  had  been  closed  with  a  fire- 
board,  a  winter  arrangement,  and  an  air-tight  stove 
roared  in  front  of  it.  I  asked  what  had  become  of 
the  swallows'  nests  that  used  to  line  the  big  chim- 
ney, plastered  to  its  sides  near  the  top.  One  could 
not  see  them,  but  one  knew  they  were  there  by  the 
muffled  twitterings,  and  a  hollow  sound  of  wings 
beating  in  the  chimney  as  the  parent  birds  flew  in 
and  out.  It  was  a  great  feature  of  the  room  to  me. 

Mrs.  Aylesford  said  the  swallows  had  flown  away 
last  autumn,  and  she  disposed  of  the  matter  practi- 
cally by  adding  that  the  nests  were  burned  out  with 
straw  every  fall  when  the  chimney  was  cleaned.  "  But 
the  birds  are  all  fledged  and  gone  before  summer  is 
over." 

I  felt  that  I  should  miss  the  swallows,  though  just 
then  a  good  hot  fire  might  be  more  to  the  purpose. 
The  carpet  struck  cold  through  one's  very  boot-soles, 
and  the  air  beyond  the  stove's  zone  of  heat  was  as 

59 


EDITH  BONHAM 

fresh  and  pure  as  outside  air  and  as  icy.  One  knew 
that  the  room  could  not  have  been  used  all  winter. 
It  made  me  realize  what  the  winters  meant  in  that 
house  since  its  spring-bird  had  flown. 

"And  now,"  said  my  hostess  cozily,  "will  you 
have  a  cup  of  tea  up  here  or  in  half  an  hour  down- 
stairs with  us  ?  " 

"  But  you  're  having  it  for  me  I  You  don't  take  tea 
yourselves  an  hour  before  real  tea  I  I  have  n't  for- 
gotten, you  see,  even  if  it  is  a  good  while." 

"  This  afternoon  we  are  going  to  have  your  kind  of 
tea  and  *  real  tea '  a  little  later.  You  need  a  good  sub- 
stantial meal  after  your  cold  journey  "  (of  two  hours  I). 

"I  need  nothing  but  just  what  is  here,  just  as  it 
used  to  be.  That 's  what  I  came  for." 

"  Well,  you  '11  have  to  give  in  to  me  a  little  this 
first  afternoon  ;  then  we  won't  make  company  of  you. 
Mary  has  baked  some  of  the  tea-cakes  she  remem- 
bered you  liked ;  she  '11  want  them  eaten  hot.  And  she 
remembered  that  you  called  them  *  scones.'  —  In  half 
an  hour,  then." 

In  half  an  hour  I  went  down.  Tea  was  served  in 
the  sitting-room  next  the  dining-room.  It  had  the 
afternoon  sun  and  was  too  warm  in  summer  at  this 
hour.  Now  it  was  deliciously  warm,  and  its  stove- 
heated  air  smelled  of  rose-geranium  and  heliotrope, 
from  blossoming  plants  brought  in  for  the  winter 
that  filled  a  new  bay-window ;  a  change  I  deplored 
as  I  would  any  other  alteration  in  any  part  of  the 
old  house,  but  Mrs.  Aylesford,  I  could  see,  was  very 
pleased  with  it. 

60 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

She  seemed  to  me  restless,  though  not  disturbed 
about  any  one  thing  apparently.  It  was  more  like  a 
chronic  habit  of  waiting.  She  came  up  to  my  room 
on  insufficient  errands  when  I  sat  there  writing  let- 
ters of  a  morning  —  to  see  if  Mary  had  brought 
fresh  towels,  and  if  they  were  the  right  ones ;  if  I 
had  had  bed-covers  enough  in  the  night  and  a  glass 
of  milk  on  my  tray  in  case  I  should  not  sleep.  If  it 
were  bedtime,  it  was  to  see  if  my  fire  had  been  prop- 
erly laid  ;  and  in  the  morning  she  knocked  softly 
and  stole  in  to  see  if  it  burned  I  I  think  it  was  hav- 
ing some  one  young  in  the  house  again  that  excited 
her,  some  one  who  made  her  think  of  Nanny.  Grad- 
ually she  became  quieter,  and  especially  when  she 
found  we  had  something  to  talk  about  that  con- 
cerned Nanny  herself. 

My  plan,  or  my  hope,  pleased  her  almost  to  tears. 
It  was,  of  course,  a  great  surprise ;  and  she  had  a 
surprise  for  me  —  a  rather  startling  one  at  first. 
Nanny  was  expecting  a  baby,  very  soon  —  "  almost 
any  day  now."  My  proposal  would  come  as  the 
greatest  possible  relief  just  when  her  anxieties  would 
center  on  little  Phoebe  left  with  servants.  She  only 
wished,  she  said,  that  Nanny  could  know  it  now. 
She  urged  me  to  telegraph,  not  to  wait  for  an  ex- 
change of  letters.  I  felt  so  sure  that  Mrs.  Aylesford 
must  know  her  ground  that  I  did  telegraph,  being 
myself  impatient,  but  I  asked  for  a  letter  in  return 
and  said  (in  my  telegram)  that  I  should  wait  for 
the  letter.  But  Nanny  sent  me  a  return  telegram 
first. 

6i 


EDITH   BONHAM 

"You  make  me  perfectly  happy.  Come  soon. 
Letter  goes  to-day." 

And  we  were  happy,  waiting  for  that  letter :  for  a 
second  telegram,  signed  "  Douglas  Maclay,"  had 
followed  Nanny's  —  within  twenty-four  hours.  The 
baby,  "a  fine  little  boy,"  had  arrived  and  all  was 
well.  Mrs.  Aylesford's  relief  was  touching  to  see ;  it 
was  the  measure  of  her  previous  anxiety.  She  went 
back  to  her  days  of  suspense  and  hugged  the  con- 
trast. 

I  think  she  must  have  kept  every  letter  Nanny  had 
ever  written  her,  from  the  winter  at  Cooper  in  New 
York,  to  the  latest  from  Idaho.  They  were  in  the 
desk  in  the  sitting-room  where  she  had  sat  for  hours 
writing  her  share  of  the  weekly  posts  by  which 
they  had  created  a  separate  life  for  themselves  in 
absence  which  spiritualizes  our  thoughts  of  those 
we  love,  as  death  does,  and  lifts  our  image  of  them 
above  petty  jars.  I  watched  her  sweet  face  and 
worn,  drooped  eyelids  beneath  her  spectacles  as  she 
searched  among  her  packets  of  letters,  each  clasped 
by  a  rubber  band  and  labeled  for  the  year  they  re- 
corded. From  the  smallest  bundle,  since  only  Janu- 
ary, she  took  one  letter  —  the  last  she  had  received, 
but  a  few  days  before  my  arrival. 

"I  won't  read  it  aloud,"  she  said.  ** There's  noth- 
ing in  it  Nanny  would  n't  love  to  have  you  see.  /like 
to  read  a  letter  myself :  there 's  something  in  hand- 
writing that  shows  you  how  the  person  felt  at  the 
time  it  was  written.  This  shows,  I  guess,  that  Nanny 
was  getting  pretty  tired  of  waiting.  But  you  won't 

62 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

mind  that,  now  I  It  will  tell  you  a  little  how  they  live 
—  and  how  much  she  needs  you." 

Nanny's  hand  had  changed  more  in  this  letter  than 
in  others  I  had  had  from  her ;  or  not  changed,  ex- 
actly,—  loosened  up.  In  a  few  swift,  intimate  strokes 
I  learned  how  those  last  days  had  passed  ;  how  **  well" 
she  was,  how  far  she  could  walk  —  as  far  as  she 
dared  go  with  only  little  Phcebe.  How  good  Hing 
was  (Hing  had  been  with  them  on  the  mesa,  Mrs. 
Aylesford  explained)  washing  up  blankets  and  clean- 
ing the  whole  house.  How  Noreen,  a  young  Irish 
housemaid,  was  learning  to  manage  Phcebe,  but  was 
n't  very  satisfactory  ;  rather  dreamy  and  did  n't  un- 
derstand about  outer  clothing  to  suit  changeable 
weather.  Spring  colds  were  what  she  dreaded.  How 
Dick  Grant  slept  at  the  house  and  kept  his  horse  at 
their  stable  ready  to  ride  with  the  summons  to  Silver 
City.  "  Douglas  is  getting  things  in  shape  up  there 
so  he  will  be  able  to  stay  awhile  with  us  when  he 
comes  down,  and  he  can  keep  an  eye  on  Phoebe. 
He'll  want  one  eye,  I  expect,  for  some  one  else  — 
some  one  I  'm  so  impatient  to  see  !  How  strange  it  is 
to  know  nothing  about  them  when  they  are  so  close 
to  you  all  the  time.  I  can  hardly  wait." 

We  talked  that  evening  long  after  Mr.  Aylesford 
had  gone  to  bed,  and  always  about  Nanny.  I  have  n't 
said  how  the  whole  hushed,  empty  house  was  elo- 
quent of  her  to  one  who  remembered  it  with  her  at 
home.  .  .  .  "Three  times,"  her  mother  said,  "she 
has  waited  this  way  and  gone  through  with  it 
alone.   I  mean  with  no  one  belonging  to  her — no 

63 


EDITH  BONHAM 

woman,"  she  added  in  time,  thinking  of  Nanny's 
husband. 

I  repeated  the  words  in  surprise  —  **  Three  times?  " 
"  Yes  ;  there  might  have  been  a  baby  between  this 
one  and  Phoebe,  but  it  did  n't  live.  It  never  breathed. 
Yes;  she's  been  through  quite  a  good  deal,  for  a 
girl  that  never  had  a  real  sickness  nor  a  sorrow  in 
her  life." 

There  had  been  a  heavy  rainfall  both  before  and 
after  my  visit  began.  One  could  walk  nowhere  on 
the  roads  for  mud.  The  meadow  was  a  swamp ;  the 
lanes  up  towards  the  barn  and  hill-orchards  were 
lined  with  dingy  snow-banks  that  wasted  by  day  and 
froze  at  night.  All  the  hedgerows,  so  sweet  in  sum- 
mer, were  sodden  with  dead  leaves  clinging  to  their 
blackened  vines.  The  porches  were  not  a  good  sub- 
stitute for  regular  walks.  The  back  porch  was  merely 
a  stoop ;  the  front  one  crossed  the  sitting-room  win- 
dows where  Mrs.  Aylesford  sat  with  her  sewing  and 
took  pains  to  look  up  and  smile  each  time  as  I  passed 
on  my  beat.  This  was  not  very  satisfactory.  One  day, 
the  last  of  our  waiting,  I  tried  the  baby-carriage 
walk  under  the  willows  by  the  mill.  Passing  the 
wheel-pit  I  stopped  and  looked  down :  it  was  cold  as 
death  down  there.  Rain  had  leaked  into  the  buckets 
of  the  wheel  and  overflowed  in  icicles ;  the  stones  of 
the  wall  were  cased  in  ice.  I  shivered  and  went  on. 
Our  willows  were  saffron-red  through  all  their  branch- 
ing twigs,  against  the  low,  gray  sky.  The  wet  stones 
where  Nanny  and  I  had  sat  —  everything  here  as  well 
—  here  more  than  anywhere  —  spoke  to  me  of  her. 

64 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

Then  Jonas  came  splashing  by,  the  old  horse  in  a 
hurry  for  his  stable.  I  stepped  into  the  road  and  took 
from  him  the  afternoon  mail  from  the  North,  by 
which  Nanny's  letters  came.  It  was  there  at  last.  I 
opened  it  on  my  way  to  the  house.  Its  first  words 
were  a  cry  of  joy.  My  dear  girl  said  such  sweet  things 
to  me  and  about  me  that  I  could  not  hand  my  letter 
over,  generous  as  her  mother  had  been  with  her  own, 
to  me. 

Inside  the  letter  was  pinned  a  check.  It  gave  me  the 
strangest  feeling  to  have  business  with  Nanny !  Yet 
it  would  have  been  exceedingly  awkward  if  she  had 
not  advanced  my  traveling  expenses  ("eh,  what  a 
faim'lyl"),  in  this  check  signed  with  her  husband's 
name.  I  blushed  at  the  amount.  I  was  n't  worth  it 
—  I  should  never  be  worth  it  in  the  world.  I  said  so 
aloud. 

*'  My  dear,  my  dear ! "  Mrs.  Aylesford  cried.  "  I 
don't  suppose  even  /  know  what  you  will  be  to 
Nanny  I  In  all  my  married  life  I  don't  believe  I  've 
had  so  much  sheer  care  as  she  has  had  in  her  six 
years.  It 's  having  people  around  whose  minds  don't 
work  the  same  way  as  your  mind  does ;  whose  ways 
are  not  the  same.  People's  little  ways!  Yours  will 
be  such  a  rest.  There  won't  be  anything  you  don't 
understand.  Father  and  I  have  been  saying  how 
natural  it  seems  to  have  you  here !  You  just  seem  to 
fit  in  every  way,  and  you  bring  in  so  much  that  is 
fresh  too.  And  we  are  just  two  old  people." 

"  But,  dear  Mrs.  Aylesford,  there  is  always  one  side 
of  Nanny's  life  that  she  and  I  can  never  touch  upon. 

65 


EDITH  BONHAM 

Much  the  greater  half  does  n't  belong  to  me  any- 
more." 

**  Oh,  that  side  is  all  right,  if  you  mean  her  hus- 
band. I  can  assure  you  of  that.  She  's  a  happy  wife 
—  only  she  sees  so  little  of  him.  You  will  help  her  to 
bear  the  times  when  she  can't  see  him.  That 's  the 
worst  part  of  the  whole  strain,  I  expect."  Mrs.  Ayles- 
ford  sighed.  "  It 's  wonderful  to  me  how  she  stands 
it.  No  gold  mines  in  the  world  would  be  worth  it  to 
me  I  But  that 's  something  she  can't  decide,  I  sup- 
pose. It  would  be  like  my  wanting  my  husband  to 
leave  the  old  place  here  and  go  and  live  in  New  York, 
for  instance." 

I  had  often  wondered  what  Nanny's  parents  really 
thought  of  her  husband.  In  so  far  as  they  might  be 
construed  into  an  answer  to  that  question,  these  re- 
marks of  Mrs.  Aylesford's,  simple  and  rambling  as 
they  were,  pleased  me  very  much. 

There  were  a  few  sentences  in  that  dear,  foolish, 
wild  scrawl  of  a  letter  which  I  could  share  with 
Nanny's  mother. 

"You'll  find  me  in  bed  with  what  is  called  a 
*  monthly  nurse '  standing  guard  over  me.  She  will 
think  I  ought  to  get  up  on  the  ninth  day  and  be  walk- 
ing around  the  house  soon  after ;  that 's  the  rule  with 
her  class  of  patients,  otherwise  you  are  considered 
lazy.  I  shall  be  lazy  —  with  you  taking  care  of  my 
little  Phcebe-bird.  I  want  to  be  a  tower  of  strength  for 
the  good  times  I  see  coming.  *  Daddy'  will  be  here, 
of  course,  and  a  daddy  is  a  wonderful  thing  to  have 
around,  especially  when  so  rare,  but  these  daddies  are 

66 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

not  much  account  when  it  comes  to  wet  grass  and 
overshoes.  We  live  by  irrigation,  yet  I  can't  say  it 
is  n't  the  bane  of  my  existence  in  some  of  its  aspects. 
They  seem  to  water  the  lawn  whenever  you  don't 
know  they  are  going  to,  and  little  folk  get  such  deadly 
colds  sitting  on  wet  grass  —  There  goes  one  of  my 
worries !  I  meant  this  letter  to  be  all  pure  happiness, 
as  it  ought  to  be,  but  you  see  I  'm  obsessed.  You're 
going  to  straighten  out  my  nerves  and  make  me  sane 
again. 

"  I  shall  follow  you  all  the  way  on  your  journey, 
beginning  with  those  through-trains  that  used  to  go 
thundering  past  our  crossing  and  give  us  just  a  hoot 
—  and  pack  their  smoke  into  the  tunnel  and  burst  out 
again  with  another  *  hoo,  hoo  I '  and  round  the  last 
turn  where  the  hills  shut  in.  If  you  should  start  from 
our  house,  father  would  be  pleased  to  death  to  see 
you  off  at  Poughkeepsie  and  check  your  trunks  from 
there.  But  perhaps  that  would  be  cutting  out  your 
own  father  ?  "  (Nanny  could  not  know  how  she  hurt 
me  there.)  "Anyhow,  if  you  do  start  from  Lime 
Point,  don't  let  my  dear  mother  force  too  big  a  lunch- 
basket  on  you.  The  best  of  basket-meals  pall  when 
you  eat  them  in  the  same  seat  in  the  same  car  day 
after  day.  Meal-stations  are  a  rest,  and  they  do  give 
you  hot  things." 

These  commonplaces  were  fascinating  to  me.  I  had 
taken  many  journeys,  but  never  one  like  this.  This 
was  my  start  in  life  —  at  twenty-seven  I  I  had  never 
made  for  myself  and  carried  out  a  decision  like  this 
before. 

67 


EDITH  BONHAM 

That  night  I  went  to  bed  early,  as  we  all  did  by 
custom.  My  fire  had  been  laid  but  not  lighted.  I 
thought  I  would  e'en  put  a  match  to  it  and  let  the 
morning  take  care  of  itself.  Then  I  remembered  Mrs. 
Aylesford's  early  visits  :  I  could  see  her  seated  on  her 
little  slipper-heels,  —  bless  her !  —  in  front  of  my  stove 
full  of  cold  ashes,  laying  the  kindlings  and  putting  on 
the  wood  with  her  whole  heart  in  the  task.  I  could  n't 
be  sure  of  waking  in  time  to  get  ahead  of  her,  so  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  jump  into  bed  and  lie  there 
thinking ;  at  home  I  never  went  to  sleep  before  mid- 
night. 

So  much  has  been  said  that  no  one  pretends  to  be- 
lieve about  premonitions,  —  messages  by  the  wireless 
of  our  semi-detached  souls  —  and  such  cheap  use  is 
so  often  made  of  what  we  do  believe,  that  some  of 
us  hesitate  even  to  mention  any  little  occult  experi- 
ences of  our  own  which  have  bordered  on  those  ques- 
tions we  are  satisfied  to  treat  as  mysteries  belonging 
to  the  hereafter.  On  my  side  of  the  partition  that 
separated  my  room  from  the  one  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ayles- 
ford  occupied,  I  could  hear  that  good  man  snore. 
From  other  suppressed  little  sounds  through  the 
night  I  knew  that  I  was  not  the  only  watcher.  Mrs. 
Aylesford  was  keeping  me  company,  and  I  hoped 
her  vigil  might  be  happier  than  mine. 

It  may  have  been  due  to  want  of  exercise,  worry 
postponed  and  piled  up  about  papa,  excitement  over 
the  coming  change  in  my  own  life,  but,  lying  awake 
that  night  anxious,  when  I  should  have  been  thank- 
ful things  were  no  worse,  I  had  grisly  thoughts  for 

68 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

company.  Nanny's  check  had  been  cashed  and  more 
than  half  spent  for  my  tickets :  that  practically  closed 
the  contract  between  us.  But  if  I  could  have  drawn 
back,  I  believe  I  should  have  done  so,  —  and  gone 
home  to  Essie  and  the  old  mortifications  in  the 
morning. 

I  lay  there  (in  a  feather-bed  the  enveloping  warmth 
of  which  I  was  n't  used  to)  and  went  over  minutely 
that  first  home-visit  when  Nanny  and  I  had  been 
fellow-guests  in  the  house,  both  of  us  on  our  good 
behavior.  I  returned  to  her  last  letter ;  —  even  then 
she  could  not  control  her  irrepressible  worries.  How 
would  it  be  when  she  began  to  worry  about  me  ? 
Would  I  bear  watching,  as  I  had  seen  her  watch  the 
care-takers  of  her  child  ?  Could  I  be  as  patient  as  her 
own  mother  —  who  had  not  always  been  patient  I  It 
was  not  as  if  we  were  strangers :  all  the  delicacy  and 
poetry  of  our  friendship  without  a  flaw,  was  at  stake. 
What  had  I  to  gain  (except  my  support)  by  the  ex- 
periment of  joining  myself  to  her  for  that  intensive 
intimacy  which  I  knew  must  be  the  result  of  our  liv- 
ing together  ?  Nobody  had  ever  watched  me  in  my 
life.  I  had  had  no  domestic  discipline,  but  I  had  been 
left  alone.  No  ;  I  should  n't  bear  it  well,  and  I  should 
blame  Nanny  for  not  realizing  the  pressure  of  the 
maternal  bond  when  its  operation  included  an  out- 
sider. I  had  never  been  an  outsider  to  Nanny,  because 
the  question  as  to  out  or  in  had  never  been  forced. 
Now,  indeed,  it  would  be  forced  upon  us  both. 

I  was  caught  in  a  trap  of  my  own  making;  and 
more  or  less  of  the  time  I  should  be  watched  by  two. 

69 


EDITH  BONHAM 

As  far  as  that  old  introductory  photograph  was  a 
likeness,  I  might  say  that  I  knew  Nanny's  husband 
by  sight ;  his  face  came  before  me  in  the  darkness, 
and  with  the  dark  side  of  my  imagination  I  read  its 
prophecies.  He  was  a  powerful  person  and  a  total 
stranger  —  and  Nanny  had  said  he  did  not  talk. 
''Such  men  are  dangerous."  We  might  set  up  a  fine 
mute  antagonism  for  each  other  and  crush  Nanny's 
heart  between  us.  That  was  nonsense  of  course  ;  but 
something  awkward  would  be  sure  to  come  of  it. 
Tri-cornered  arrangements  were,  my  own  father  used 
to  say,  the  very  deuce  I  I  could  put  aside  the  old  vul- 
gar plot  of  two  men  and  a  woman,  or  two  women  and 
a  man,  yet  we  three  were  an  intricate  combination. 
We  might  develop  situations  quite  as  painful  if  not 
so  hackneyed. 

Sleep  came  at  last,  some  hours,  very  likely,  before 
morning :  going  to  bed  so  early  had  made  the  night 
seem  endless.  I  feared,  from  my  first  look  at  Mrs. 
Aylesford,  that  she  had  watched  the  night  through. 
I  saw  it  in  her  ashen  face  when  she  slipped  into  my 
room  and  turned  in  silence  towards  the  bed.  Out  of 
the  window  opposite,  the  cold,  rosy  east  before  sun- 
rise confronted  her.  Her  features  showed  a  piteous 
pallor  which  the  night  arrangement  of  her  thin  gray 
hair  made  more  haggard.  How  old  she  had  grown  I 

I  sat  up  in  bed  and  smiled  at  her,  and  she  smiled 
—  it  only  made  her  look  more  wan. 

"I  thought  I  heard  you  up  in  the  night?"  she 
questioned  me. 

"Perhaps  you  did,"  I  said.  **I  didn't  sleep  very 

70 


THE  STUDIO  AND  THE  FARM 

well;  excitement,  I  suppose.  I  am  a  perfect  child 
about  this  journey  I  Did  you  sleep,  dear  Mrs.  Ayles- 
ford?'^ 

"  Why,  no,"  she  said,  "  and  it 's  queer  I  should  n't. 
Father  slept.  I  guess  it 's  something  in  the  change  of 
wind.  It 's  cleared  oH  and  there  was  a  sort  of  stir 
round  the  house  like  rain,  but  it  was  n't  rain."  I  saw 
her  shiver.  "  Lie  still  if  you  have  n't  rested  well.  Let 
me  send  your  breakfast  up." 

"  No,"  I  said.  "  I  'm  leaving  you  to-day  and  I  don't 
intend  to  miss  a  single  meal  now  I  have  so  few  left." 

The  look  of  apprehension  back  of  her  smile  did  not 
pass  from  my  dear  hostess's  face.  "  I  never  thought 
I  should  be  glad  to  see  you  go,"  she  said.  **  But  now 
I  'm  glad.  You  '11  be  with  Nanny  all  the  sooner.  / 
shall  be  there  too,"  she  added  with  a  little  laugh  it 
hurt  to  hear ;  it  was  so  like  a  sob.  "  I  am  there  — 
most  of  the  time  I  I  wish — "  She  did  not  finish.  She 
came  to  the  bed  and  kissed  me,  and  her  hands  trem- 
bled as  she  touched  my  hair,  looking  in  my  eyes  ear- 
nestly. 

"You  didn't  hear  anything  last  night,  did  you, 
dear?  —  that  made  you  get  up  and  listen?" 

"I  was  up,"  I  said,  "but  I  wasn't  listening." 

She  did  not  believe  me  I  "  Then  you  did  n't  hear 
what  I  heard?"  she  whispered.  "I  can't  speak  of  it 
to  father.  It  was  n't  the  wind.  It  was  a  sort  of  throb- 
bing in  the  air  —  I  can't  think  of  anything  but  our 
swallows  in  the  chimney  beating  their  wings  — in  the 
hollow  chimney.  And  it  wasn't  like  that  either." 
She  shook  —  her  lips  were  white.   Her  eyes  had  a 

71 


EDITH  BONHAM 

drear,  strained  expression,  tearless  with  some  incom- 
municable fear. 

**  Perhaps  it  was  the  wind  in  the  chimney.  It  rose 
in  the  night,  you  said  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  the  sounds  of  wind  in  this  house,** 
she  answered.  "  Well ;  I  'm  nervous  —  I  guess  that 's 
all.  If  there  had  been  anything  you  *d  have  heard  it 
too,  if  you  were  awake.  Unless,"  she  added  softly  as 
to  herself,  "  it  was  only  meant  for  me." 


PART   II 
AUNT  EDITH 


VII 

In  thinking  over  the  mass  of  memories  an  average 
life  supplies,  almost  without  reference  to  compara- 
tive values,  one  is  at  a  loss,  in  telling  a  story  which 
hinges  on  one  event,  to  choose  only  details  that 
bear  directly  or  constructively  upon  that  event.  Such 
a  choice  would  leave  out  my  continental  journey 
which  had  no  significance  beyond  the  impressions 
of  a  few  days ;  impressions  new  to  me  because  I  had 
never  seen  my  own  country  in  its  longitude  before. 
The  life  and  habits  of  a  Pullman  sleeper  were  new  to 
me  also. 

We  changed  at  Ogden  then,  where  I  telegraphed 
my  friends  in  Idaho  that  I  was  on  the  way.  This  was 
before  the  Union  Pacific  lines  took  you  through  from 
Chicago  in  the  same  car.  Also  it  was  before  railroad 
officials  had  learned  that  woman  in  the  aggregate 
cannot  be  trusted  with  power  to  lock  the  door  of  the 
common  dressing-room  upon  her  fellow-traveling 
woman  with  rights  equal  to  her  own.  I  could  not  have 
believed  the  total  want  of  imagination  as  to  another's 
necessity,  to  say  nothing  of  convenience,  displayed 
by  one  or  two  of  the  women  aboard  that  Pullman 
"sleeper."  You  waited  in  the  narrow  aisle  outside 
that  locked  door,  in  your  wrapper  with  most  of  your 
clothes  and  a  bag  of  dressing-things  on  your  arm, 
or  you  returned  to  your  berth  to  hear,  **  Next  station, 

75 


EDITH  BONHAM 

twenty  minutes  for  breakfast,"  cried  outside  your 
curtains.  If  you  took  the  liberty  of  knocking  per- 
sistently or  with  expressive  emphasis,  the  fair  one 
crimping  her  hair  or  manicuring  her  finger-nails 
within,  opened  at  last  with  looks  more  outraged  than 
your  own. 

All  this,  with  other  luxuries  of  home  travel,  I  left 
behind  me  when  the  porter  led  me  across  the  tracks 
at  Granger  and  hoisted  me  and  my  bags  up  the  plat- 
form-steps of  the  day-car  I  was  to  spend  the  night 
in  on  the  Oregon  Short  Line.  I  thought  I  should 
miss  my  porter  very  much.  Friends,  when  I  left  New 
York  (for  of  course  I  did  not  start  from  Lime  Point ; 
that  would  have  hurt  Essie  too  much  !),  had  brought 
me  books  and  keepsakes  at  the  last  moment  to  swell 
my  hand-luggage,  and  I  had  provided  myself  with  all 
sorts  of  things  suited  to  steamer-  but  not  to  train- 
travel,  if  you  are  to  leave  the  main  lines.  But  before 
I  could  cope  with  my  own  possessions  they  were  all 
gathered  up  by  the  large  sun-burned  hand  of  a  stran- 
ger who  showed  me  to  a  seat  and  reversed  the  back 
of  the  next  one,  and  advised  me  to  **  hold  onto  "  them 
both,  as  I  should  need  them  that  night.  I  was  now 
spread  over  twice  the  space  I  had  paid  for.  My  friend 
raised  his  hat  and  went  to  his  own  seat  farther  down 
the  aisle.  The  man  beside  him  turned  and  took  a 
long,  deliberate,  but  respectful  look  at  me  over  the 
chair-back.  It  was  the  nearest  approach  to  a  stare 
I  encountered,  though  I  was  the  only  woman  on  the 
train. 

The  Oregon  Short  Line  was  built  then  only  as 

76 


AUNT  EDITH 

far  as  Kuna,  my  station.  Our  train  carried  a  caboose 
and  a  string  of  fiat-cars  loaded  with  material  for  the 
road.  The  men  aboard  were  in  working,  not  travel- 
ing, clothes.  They  looked  like  very  free  citizens 
of  these  United  States,  although  they  were  not  in 
one  of  them  —  merely  in  that  future  state  of  political 
existence,  a  Territory.  I  don't  know  why  it  pleased 
me  so  to  think  I  was  in  a  **  Territory." 

The  country  now  was  vast  and  broken,  not  by 
man  with  dynamite  and  steam-shovels,  but  by  the 
agency  of  rivers  and  ancient  glaciers  and  lava-flows. 
Through  rents  in  the  mountains  that  came  down 
to  the  high  plain  we  were  crossing,  you  saw  bluer 
mountains,  snow-capped,  flat  against  the  sky.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  roads,  yet  there  must  have  been  in- 
lets and  outlets  of  travel  to  all  this  region,  old  as  the 
fur-hunters'  and  Indians'  trails.  They  reached  out  now 
to  the  centers  from  which  the  white  man's  occupation 
had  spread. 

I  began  to  feel  such  a  castaway,  so  foreign  to  my 
kind  about  me,  that  merely  to  hear  the  sound  of 
my  own  voice  again  I  asked  a  question  across  the 
aisle,  in  the  silence  of  one  of  our  unexplained  stops  — 
When  should  we  reach  Kuna,  and  how  far  was  Kuna 
from  Boise  ?  I  was  careful  to  pronounce  it  as  Nanny 
had,  "  Boy'-see."  All  seemed  interested  to  learn  I  was 
going  there.  I  felt  like  a  traveler  of  importance  in 
their  eyes,  with  friends  in  the  social  centers  and  the 
marts  of  trade. 

We  ran  slowly  and  stopped  for  no  apparent  reason, 
at  places  undistinguishable  from  nowhere.  The  heads 

77 


EDITH  BONHAM 

of  the  near  hills  sank  from  sight  like  ships  going  out 
to  sea.  Others  arose,  a  line  of  ethereal  crests,  the  same 
that  we  had  gazed  at  through  gaps  in  the  foothills, 
and  these  went  with  us,  mile  after  mile.  I  asked  and 
was  told  their  names.  One  great  peak  was  called 
"  The  War- Eagle  "  and  the  range  it  belonged  to  was 
the  "  Owyhees."  Nanny's  Owyhees  I  So  now  we 
were  getting  home. 

Desert  did  not  seem  the  word  for  this  country,  nor 
was  it  deserted —  it  was  just  coming  into  being  after 
some  long  creative  pause.  Man  as  we  know  him 
had  never  been  here.  Yet  he  was  coming ;  here  and 
there  he  had  come,  and  brought  his  wife  and  babies 
and  dogs  and  chickens  and  with  an  appealing  temer- 
ity had  planted  his  hopes  in  shelters  as  wild  and  less 
habitable,  they  looked,  than  houses  of  prairie-dogs 
or  a  sage-hen's  nest. 

But  the  wind  1  You  ceased  to  hear  it  while  the  train 
was  in  motion ;  when  it  stopped  and  you  listened 
from  your  window  or  stood  on  the  platform  to  look 
out,  it  was  there  —  filling  the  silence  with  that  breath 
of  boundless  atmosphere.  It  was  this  earth-stillness, 
manifest  in  subtle  unfamiliar  sounds,  that  gave  me 
my  first  thrill  —  the  ** feeling"  of  the  West.  I  have 
parted  with  it  often  for  long  periods  and  half  forgotten 
it,  but  never  lost  it  altogether.  And  the  voice  of  it  is 
that  desert  wind,  soft,  insistent,  secret,  that  is  known 
only  in  the  heart  of  a  great  continent. 

We  were  very  near  Kuna  now.  It  seemed  more 
and  more  improbable  that  any  one  could  be  waiting 
for  me  there.  I  may  not  have  looked  pale,  but  I  felt 

78 


AUNT  EDITH 

pale — I  felt  like  the  last  woman  left  on  earth  — 
when  I  rose  to  button  my  jacket  as  the  brakes  began 
to  jar.  My  friend  on  the  watch  across  the  aisle  rose, 
too,  and  smiling  an  "  Excuse  me!^  gathered  my  lug- 
gage in  his  comprehensive  grasp. 

"  Expecting  any  one  over  to  meet  you  ?"  he  asked. 
"Stage  for  Boise  don't  get  in  for  an  hour  yet." 

I  told  him  whom  I  expected.  He  looked  at  me 
quickly  —  **  Did  you  say  *  Maclay  '  ?—  Oh,  yes  —  " 
He  hesitated.  "  They  '11  send  some  one  over.  You  've 
come  quite  a  ways,  have  n't  you,  lady  ?  Maybe  you 
didn't  hear  —  Maclay 's  lost  his  wife,  a  few  days 
ago  ?  I  just  read  it  in  the  paper." 

...  I  still  heard  them  talking  around  me,  but  I  was 
obliged  to  sit  down  and  close  my  eyes.  "  Is  she  sick  ?  " 
some  one  asked.  My  friend's  voice  drawled,  **  No;  my 
fault  I  I  told  her  Maclay's  wife  is  dead.  /  did  n't 
know  she  was  a  relation.  Come  like  a  surprise  to  her, 
I  guess." 

Some  one  steered  me  out  of  the  car — some  one 
whom  the  others  called  "  Dick."  He  took  me  to  an 
empty  bench  against  the  warm  house-wall  of  the  sta- 
tion. I  leaned  back  in  the  darkness  of  intense  sun- 
light and  of  another  darkness  of  the  senses  and  heard 
the  clicking  of  telegraph-keys  inside.  Nanny's  mother 
was  my  first  distinct  thought.  That  dumb  message 
in  the  night  —  it  was  articulate  now !  Those  same 
keys  had  clicked  out  the  news  to  her  while  I,  unwit- 
ting, was  on  my  way. 

Two  horses  before  a  buggy  were  driven  up.  Vari- 
ous persons  who  had  tried  to  be  useful,  but  seemed 

79 


EDITH  BONHAM 

to  be  there  chiefly  to  look  on,  fell  back  as  my  escort 
joined  me  again  and  sat  down.  He  asked  me  if  I 
felt  able  to  read  a  letter,  and  sat  still  and  said  not  a 
word  while  I  opened  it,  yet  the  effect  of  his  silence 
was  not  cold  but  steadying.  He  was  a  young  man, 
and  I  knew  without  distincdy  thinking  of  it  that  he 
must  be  **  Dick  Grant." 

The  letter  was  from  Douglas  Maclay — hardly 
more  than  a  page.  I  read  it  as  one  blow,  but  it  took 
several  more  readings,  shrinking  from  the  words,  to 
adjust  my  mind  to  their  meaning.  It  was  a  very  con- 
centrated piece  of  writing.  The  blood  went  from  my 
heart  to  my  head  in  a  sudden  fury  with  the  brute 
fact  itself,  with  the  way  it  was  stated  so  tersely,  with 
the  writer  himself.  I  was  not  accustomed  to  the  lan- 
guage of  men  who  as  to  their  deepest  feelings  are 
dumb.  What  I  would  have  had  him  say  I  don't  know 
—  to  a  stranger  thrust  into  his  life  at  this  juncture. 
It  was  the  day  after  Nanny's  funeral !  He  had  written 
on  the  evening  of  the  day  itself. 

I  got  up  on  my  feet  and  took  **  Dick's  "  arm  and 
we  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  platform  and  I  sat  down, 
and  my  feet  rested  on  the  soil  of  Idaho,  my  home. 
For  this  much  had  straightened  itself  in  my  mind. 
If  there  had  ever  been  anything  in  our  compact  be- 
yond self-interest  on  my  side,  my  promise  to  Nanny 
could  not  be  broken  now.  I  shuddered  to  think :  if  I 
had  completed  my  defection  after  that  night  of  dis- 
trustful brooding  —  my  telegram  would  have  reached 
her  just  as  she  was  parting  from  her  babies,  and  dealt 
her  the  last  blow  —  that  I  had  failed  her  too. 

80 


AUNT  EDITH 

Mr.  Grant  (who  said  I  must  call  him  "  Dick  ")  asked 
for  my  checks  and  went  to  see  the  station-agent 
about  sending  my  trunks  by  stage.  All  this  I  heard 
as  if  it  were  some  one  else  going  over  to  Boise  City. 
Back  of  the  small  noises  of  the  station  was  another 
sound  which  I  found  myself  listening  for.  It  was  in  the 
air  around  one  like  the  wind.  It  came  again,  but  in- 
termittent —  not  like  the  wind.  The  first  meadow-lark 
of  spring  !  Meadow-larks  —  of  Idaho  1  The  note  was 
not  quite  the  same,  though  nearly,  as  we  used  to  hear  it 
on  the  Hudson.  Our  meadow-larks  nested  in  the  long 
grass  of  the  mill-pasture  and  we  started  them  up  — 
Nanny  and  I  —  when  we  went  down  there  looking 
for  dog-toothed  violets  that  grew  in  the  thick  swales 
along  the  brook.  And  they  would  lure  us  on  in  short, 
uncertain  flights,  as  if  wounded,  from  their  nestlings 
in  the  grass. 

Under  that  great  strange  sky  that  seemed  fairly 
dark  with  its  depths  of  clearness,  with  the  songs  of 
the  birds  of  home  to  welcome  me,  and  Nanny  not 
there!  —  it  broke  me  down.  I  sat  and  cried  to  my- 
self, not  thinking  of  where  I  was  or  of  what  must 
come  next,  till  my  companion,  who  had  seated  him- 
self beside  me,  said  simply,  — 

"  It  does  me  good  to  see  you  cry.  There  has  been 
nobody  to  cry  like  that  1  .  .  .  When  I  first  heard  of  it 
I  wanted  to  get  outside  somewhere  and  howl  like  a 
dog." 

Afterwards  I  knew  what  he  meant,  poor  Dick,  but 
then  the  words  merely  surprised  me,  coming  from  a 
stranger,  and  silenced  my  own  outburst 

8i 


EDITH  BONHAM 

We  were  trotting  along  the  road  through  the  sage- 
brush, the  song  of  the  meadow-larks  rising  all  about 
us.  I  asked  Dick  to  tell  me  about  Phoebe.  How  was 
it  with  her,  had  he  heard? 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "A  neighbor 
took  her  in  for  the  first  awful  days.  There 's  been 
nobody  but  strangers  I  I  suppose  they  will  tell  her 
something  to  satisfy  her  for  the  present." 

'*  You  mean  she  doesn't  know  1" 

"  Not  the  truth,"  said  Dick  bluntly.  "  I  'm  sorry 
for  you!" 

*'  For  me  I " —  I  was  thinking  of  the  child's  father. 
Had  he  left  her,  the  day  after  the  funeral  I  —  left  the 
"truth"  to  be  handed  to  that  child  by  a  stranger? 
"This  letter  tells  me  I  am  to  ask  you  anything  I  want 
to  know.  But  I  don't  know  what  I  do  want  to  know  1" 
I  groaned  aloud,  to  myself. 

"Not  yet,  of  course,"  said  my  companion.  "To- 
morrow I  go  back  to  the  mines,  but  I  '11  be  down 
again  next  week.  Then  you  will  want  to  know  sev- 
eral things.  Mr.  Maclay  might  have  stayed  down  to 
meet  you,  but  he  thought,  I  suppose,  you  would  un- 
derstand, and  he  very  likely  thought,  too,  that  it 
would  be  easier  for  you  to  be  left  alone  at  first." 

"He's  a  great  person  to  leave  you  alone,  isn't 
he?" 

"Oh,  he's  a  good  boss,"  said  my  friend  Dick. 
"  He 's  on  the  job  when  he  does  n't  show  it.  .  .  .  He 
wished  me  to  tell  you  that  he  thought  you  were  still 
at  her  father's  when  he  telegraphed  —  he  supposed 
the  news  would  reach  you  before  you  left  there.   It 

82 


AUNT  EDITH 

shocked  him  —  on  your  account  —  when  he  got  your 
wire  from  Ogden.  But  you  will  stay,  now  you've 
come?  She  counted  on  you  sol  And  now  you're 
needed  more  than  ever." 

I  had  answered  that  question  to  myself  already ;  it 
was  n't  necessary  to  answer  it  to  him.  I  asked  about 
my  dear  Mrs.  Aylesford  —  had  anything  been  heard 
from  them  since  the  news  reached  her?  It  was  as  I 
feared.  She  was  ill  —  prostrated :  a  word  much  over- 
used that  now  and  then  tells  the  truth  exactly.  As  to 
the  children's  future,  in  this  contingency — relatives 
on  the  father's  side  who  could  take  them,  he  knew 
nothing.  I  had  never  heard  Nanny  speak  of  his  par- 
ents as  if  they  were  living.  Dick  said  my  name  was 
the  only  one  he  had  heard  connected  with  plans  for 
the  motherless  children. 

"  When  he  found  you  were  coming  and  it  was  too 
late  to  stop  you,  I  could  see  he  was  immensely  re- 
lieved ;  though  he  was  anxious  too  about  you.  But 
there  was  no  time  to  think !  It  was  enough  that  you 
were  coming.  He  hopes,  I  know,  to  leave  the  re- 
sponsibility with  you  for  the  present.  You  '11  do  the 
thinking!  His  orders  to  me  were:  'See  what  she 
wants  and  get  it  —  if  you  can't  get  it,  come  to  me.' 
There 's  help  enough  in  the  house,  such  as  it  is,  and 
there  is  a  good  doctor  at  the  Post  —  Boise  Barracks, 
close  to  town." 

Here  was  a  question  I  needed  to  ask  —  not  this 
young  man  at  my  side.  But  perhaps  if  I  knew  the 
answer  I  should  have  to  keep  it  from  her  parents.  I 
should  never  know  —  for  I  could  never  ask  Douglas 

.83 


EDITH  BONHAM 

Maclay !  I  could  not  think  of  him  as  anything  but 
a  tragic  interloper  in  Nanny's  fate.  That  he  should 
hold  authority  to  give  or  withhold  facts,  as  between 
her  parents  and  what  had  happened  here,  it  was  dif- 
ficult to  admit.  There  was  nothing  in  my  new  attempt 
that  I  feared  really  except  this  man.  I  had  always 
dreaded  him,  but  Nanny  would  have  been  the  key — 
and  now  the  key  was  lost. 


VIII 

Spring,  in  that  great  inter-mountain  valley,  was  a 
setting  fit  for  a  lyric  romance  or  a  tale  of  daring  and 
adventure.  Instead,  I  must  use  it  for  a  chapter  which 
I  can  match  with  nothing  in  all  my  experience  of 
grime  except  those  passages,  fresh  in  memory  then, 
between  me  and  poor  old  Captain  Nashe.  But  through 
all  my  servant-wars  and  petty  conflicts  with  crude 
circumstance  ran  one  strain  of  exquisite  compensa- 
tion, sweet  and  haunting  as  the  note  of  her  own  name- 
sake bird,  —  "  Phoebe,  Phoebe  I " 

Noreen  greeted  me  nicely.  She  had  warm  Irish 
manners,  and  hers  was  the  kindly  task  to  feed  the 
stranger,  suppressing  curiosity  as  to  how  I  might  be 
taking  the  situation  that  confronted  me.  She  even 
did  that  well.  I  sat  still  —  at  my  first  meal  in  the 
house — unable  to  eat,  but  glad  of  a  moment  to  my- 
self. It  was  not  more  than  a  moment.  A  door  was 
pushed  open,  of  a  room  adjoining  the  dining-room, 
and  a  large  person  stood  there  and  stared.  The  eye 
that  met  mine  suggested  the  mind  of  a  fly  behind  it, 
a  suspicious,  cogitating,  female  fly  of  an  exaggerated 
bodily  distension,  a  blue-bottle  fly  persistent  and  pos- 
sibly noxious.  This  I  knew  could  be  no  other  than 
the  **  monthly  nurse,"  and  it  needed  only  a  glance  to 
see  that  it  would  be  well  for  her  little  charge  when 
the  month  was  over  and  equally  for  the  rest  of  us. 

85 


EDITH  BONHAM 

She  was  untidy,  and  being  large  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  her  untidiness.  Over  one  shoulder  she  held  a 
bundle  of  crumpled  flannel  containing  Nanny's  baby 
—  Mrs.  Aylesford's  grandson,  awaited  across  the  con- 
tinent with  prayers  and  welcomed  with  tears  of  hap- 
piness. A  foundling-hospital  waif  would  have  looked 
like  a  princeling  for  comfort  and  sweetness  beside  it. 

**  I  expect  you  had  quite  a  jar  ?  "  She  fixed  me  with 
her  dull,  hard  eye.  "  Pity  they  could  n't  'a'  let  you 
know  what's  happened  'fore  you  come  such  a  long 
ways  for  nothing.  My  name's  Mrs.  Lavinus.  He's  a 
fine  little  fellow,  ain't  he?"  She  pivoted  her  person 
that  I  might  have  a  better  look  at  a  small  puckered 
forehead  the  size  of  a  kitten's,  pufTy  eye-lids  and 
cheeks  awry  lopping  against  her  fat,  unpleasant 
shoulder.  "  He 's  a  ten-pounder.  He  won't  miss  his 
muzzer  none,  the  duckums  boy!  his  old  Lavinus"  — 
pronounced  "vine"  —  "will  take  care  of  him." 

There  was  no  outside  air  in  the  room  behind  her. 
I  glanced  in :  the  simple,  ladylike  arrangements,  the 
disorder,  the — the  stench!  Nanny's  room!  I  felt  I 
should  faint  (though  there  was  n't  the  least  chance  of 
it  I)  if  she  did  not  close  that  door. 

On  that  memorable  May  visit  at  Lime  Point,  I  had 
worn,  as  it  were  a  sweater  nowadays,  a  cloak  called 
a  "  Killarney."  It  was  one  of  the  new  spring  fashions 
that  year.  I  wore  it  walking  in  the  woods ;  I  sat 
wrapped  in  it  evenings  on  the  piazza-steps ;  it  was 
always  around  me  and  often  around  us  both,  on  gray 
chilly  mornings  when  Nanny  and  I  sat  talking  under 

86 


AUNT  EDITH 

the  willows.  This  garment  had  been  much  admired 
by  Mrs.  Aylesford  and  expatiated  on  by  myself,  for 
it  was  one  of  my  successful  economies.  It  was  copied 
from  the  imported  ones  at  Arnold  and  Constable's  at 
about  a  third  of  the  price.  Dear  Mrs.  Aylesford  must 
have  committed  a  mother's  extravagance  just  as 
Nanny  was  going  West,  and  sent  for  a  duplicate  of 
mine  made  to  order :  you  could  have  them  of  any 
plaid  you  chose  —  mine  was  the  Forty-second  High- 
landers, lined  with  scarlet.  This,  of  course,  I  never 
positively  knew.  I  only  inferred  it  from  a  cruel  little 
circumstance. 

Noreen  had  gone  across  the  yard  to  fetch  Phoebe 
from  the  neighbor's  house  close  by,  —  in  the  same  lot 
only  shut  off  by  a  slight  fence.  I  had  brought  my  own 
cloak  on  the  train  and  threw  it  around  me  to  go  out 
and  meet  them.  I  found  a  little  path  (perhaps  my 
Nanny's  feet  had  often  trod  it  in  the  days  of  her  im- 
prisoned waiting).  The  irrigating-ditch  that  watered 
the  whole  place  ran  alongside  it ;  on  the  other  side, 
the  street-front,  towered  a  wall  of  Lombardy  poplars 
not  yet  in  leaf,  their  tops  shot  through  with  gold  of 
the  spring  sunset.  Trust  a  Catholic  priest  for  a  sort 
of  canonical  good  sense  in  laying  out  a  garden  I 

I  saw  them  coming  towards  me  like  a  pair  of  happy 
friends,  little  Phcebe  skipping  along,  her  hand  in  No- 
reen's.  A  proud  little  face.  The  fair,  straight  hair,  kinked 
by  braiding  and  freshly  brushed,  stood  out  around 
the  oval-round  cheeks  red  with  the  breeze  of  running. 
She  loosed  Noreen  on  seeing  me  and  flew  to  meet  me. 
I  had  not  dreamed  of  such  a  welcome  I  Her  eyes  —  her 

87 


EDITH  BONHAM 

whole,  out-reaching,  tense  little  body  expressed  one 
wild,  passionate  greeting.  And  then  she  stopped 
aghast  —  she  turned  with  a  cry  I  shall  never  forget 
and  swerved  from  me  straight  to  the  house.  I  could 
not  know  that  seeing  me  in  that  ghost-garment, 
walking  where  her  mother  had  walked  at  this  hour, 
she  had  taken  me  for  her  mother  come  back  as 
mysteriously  as  she  had  gone.  Her  heart  had  leaped 
to  my  arms  and  then,  seeing  my  face,  she  had  flown 
like  a  wounded  bird  to  escape  capture.  She  had  gone 
to  the  house  for  one  more  search  —  we  could  hear 
her  as  we  followed,  running  from  room  to  room,  and 
her  short  step  toiling  up  the  stairs. 

We  did  not  exchange  a  word.  At  the  top  of  the 
stairs  she  turned  and  saw  me  coming. 

"Take  it  off!  Take  it  off  I"  she  screamed,  and 
pointed  at  me. 

"  What  does  she  mean  ?  "  I  whispered. 

Noreen  looked  me  coldly  in  the  eye.  "  You  've 
got  on  her  mother's  cloak.  I  hid  it  in  your  closet  on 
purpose  so  the  master  would  n't  be  seeing  it  around." 

My  bedroom  door  stood  open.  I  went  to  the  closet : 
there  hung  Nanny's  cloak,  the  mate  to  mine.  Noreen 
saw  me  gasp — saw  the  two  cloaks  identically  alike, 
and  for  that  time  she  forgave  me. 

I  could  not  bear  the  sound  of  Phoebe's  hard  crying 
in  the  hall ;  I  shut  my  bedroom  door  and  I  did  some- 
thing else  I  had  not  done  in  years.  I  had  not  been  a 
good  girl  who  says  her  prayers  every  night.  I  did 
not  say  them  even  the  night  after  papa  went  away. 
No,  I  could  not  have  said  a  prayer  for  papa.  Even 

88 


AUNT  EDITH 

Vhile  mamma  lived,  shy  little  churchwoman,  she  had 
not  been  able  to  keep  up  her  own  forms  and  house- 
hbld  traditions,  in  the  face  of  his  indulgent  levity. 
But  I  prayed  then — if  tears  are  prayer  —  and  the 
thought  of  a  face  one  has  loved,  as  if  it  were  there, 
looking  at  you  and  listening  to  the  lonely  sobbing 
of  her  own  child  beyond  her  reach. 

And  then  I  rose  from  my  foolish  knees  and  made 
my  first  effort  with  Phoebe.  It  was  no  more  than  an 
appeal  as  simple  as  a  child's  game,  the  game  of  all 
girl-children  the  world  over ;  the  fun  of  feeding  some- 
body. 

fc  I  asked  Noreen  if,  when  Phcebe  had  her  supper, 
she  would  give  me  a  cup  of  tea  at  the  same  time, 
adding  that  Phoebe  and  I  would  be  down  directly, 
and  that  I  was  hungry  I 

Noreen  looked  at  me  in  surprised  attention  till  she 
caught  the  idea,  when  she  responded  heartily.  Phcebe 
listened  to  the  strange  voice  giving  orders  in  the 
house,  interested  in  the  fact  that  she  was  to  have  a 
guest  for  supper.  But  she  clung  to  Noreen  till  I  said, 
"Put  her  down,"  and  took  her  in  my  own  arms 
struggling  and  bore  her  into  my  bedroom  and  shut 
the  door.  Most  young  children  respect  physical 
strength  if  it  is  not  angry  strength ;  my  back  and 
arms  are  very  strong,  —  result  of  posing,  —  and  as  I 
held  Phoebe  on  my  lap  I  told  her  this  was  "  Aunt 
Edith's  room  "  now,  and  we  must  get  acquainted  if 
we  were  going  to  have  tea  together.  Nanny,  in  her 
letters,  had  already  brevetted  me  as  **  Aunt "  ;  I  hoped 
Phoebe  might  have  heard  of  my  coming  by  that  name. 

89 


EDITH  BONHAM 

She  was  at  all  events  interested  in  my  room  which 
already  looked  different  from  my  brief  occupancy 

—  strange  bags  and  traveling-things,  and  garments 
new  to  her  eyes  and  trifles  such  as  girls  consider 
necessary,  lying  around,  on  the  bed  and  dressings- 
bureau. 

I  had  brought  with  me,  because  I  could  n't  help 
myself,  one  of  those  impulsive  tokens  friends  are  in- 
spired to  give  one  on  the  eve  of  a  journey  after  your 
trunks  are  locked  and  gone.  The  excuse  was,  "  I 
know  you  love  it  sol"  Yes;  I  loved  it,  but  hardly 
enough  to  have  hand-carried  it  across  the  continent : 

—  a  little  cast  of  the  young  Hermes,  not  the  Praxiteles, 
but  him  with  wings  on  his  temples,  the  lovely,  arm- 
less fragment  now  in  the  Boston  Museum.  I  had  taken 
it  out  and  set  it  on  my  bureau,  and  seeing  Phcebe's 
eyes  fixed  upon  it,  I  put  it  into  her  hands.  We  looked 
at  it  together  while  the  sobs  subsided. 

She  studied  the  face  in  its  cold  serenity.  "  It  looks 
like  Dick,"  she  said,  and  smoothed  its  bended  neck 
with  her  beautiful  little  hand  that  she  used  so  daint- 
ily. I  had  n't  been  fully  aware  of  Mr.  Grant  out- 
wardly, but  I  saw  him  now,  the  straight-featured,  not 
very  strong,  profile  I  had  sat  beside  on  the  drive  from 
Kuna.  It  did  look  like  Dick,  in  his  modern-classic 
likeness  to  an  imperishable  ideal. 

"It's  broken,"  she  sighed.  "Where  are  Dick's 
arms?" 

We  talked  a  little  while  about  the  Hermes,  and 
then  we  returned  to  the  question  of  tea  —  was  there 
a  sugar-tongs  and  would  Phcebe  put  sugar  in  Aunt 

90 


AUNT  EDITH 

Edith's  tea?  Phoebe  would  I — the  sugar-tongs  were 
stiff,  but  mamma  allowed  Phoebe  to  use  her  fingers  if 
she  touched  only  one  lump  —  **  Where 's  mamma  I " 
—  wildly.  We  smothered  this  outburst  in  more  par- 
ticulars about  teas  in  general ;  how  at  grandmamma's, 
where  Aunt  Edith  came  from,  we  had  tea  in  pink- 
and-white  cups  with  gilt  handles,  in  a  room  full  of 
flowers.  Did  Phoebe  know  that  she  had  once  been  at 
grandmamma's  when  she  was  a  baby  and  Aunt  Edith 
had  seen  her  then,  in  her  little  carriage  —  ?  But  this 
was  dangerous  ground. 

**  I  'm  going  again  some  day,  with  mamma. 
Where 's  mamma  gone  /  "  I  said  tea  must  be  ready, 
and  we  must  take  "Dick"  with  us,  and  Phoebe  must 
feed  him  herself  as  he  had  no  arms.  This  was  a  tri- 
umph, and  we  waited  no  longer  lest  we  spoil  it  again. 
Dick  had  a  clean  pocket-handkerchief  pinned  around 
his  shoulders  to  go  down  to  table,  and  we  appeared, 
all  three,  in  the  dining-room  where  Noreen  was 
scarcely  ready  for  us. 

It  was  not  best  to  pursue  the  victory.  Noreen  put 
Phoebe  to  bed,  but  I  think  she  probably  grew  tired  of 
*'  Dick"  in  the  shape  of  Hermes  ;  I  noticed  that  with 
her  Irish  tact  and  ingenuity  she  had  parted  the  little 
god  from  his  worshiper  and  he  was  back  on  my 
bureau  again  when  I  went  to  my  room  to  unpack.    \ 

The  monthly  nurse,  Mrs.  Lavinus,  had  found  time 
from  her  duties  to  stroll  heavily  upstairs,  and,  my 
door  standing  ajar,  she  had  entered  uninvited  and 
helped  herself  to  the  rocking-chair,  drawing  it  for- 
ward conversationally.  I  had  just  planted  a  tray-full 

91 


EDITH  BONHAM 

of  summer  things  on  the  bed.  She  looked  at  these 
signs  of  a  prolonged  stay  with  a  smile  of  irony. 

"  Be  you  unpackin'  ?  I  did  n't  know  you  was  ac- 
quainted with  any  one  out  here  except  Mrs.  Maclay  ? 
Who  might  you  be  goin'  to  visit  with,  if  you  don't 
mind  me  askin'  ?  " 

"I  am  not  visiting,"  I  replied.  "I  am  Phoebe's 
governess,  come  to  take  charge  of  her  and  give  her 
lessons.  That  was  settled  before  I  started :  I  stay  to 
keep  my  promise  to  her  mother."  It  seemed  best  to 
meet  the  issue  squarely. 

**  Well,  that 's  all  news  to  me.  I  never  heard  a  word 
of  anything  like  that,  nor  no  one  else  in  the  house,  I 
guess.  And  I  been  here  a  week  before  the  baby  come. 
That's  a  funny  thing!" 

It  did  not  surprise  me  that  Nanny  had  not  men- 
tioned her  plans  to  Mrs.  Lavinus,  but  it  would,  in- 
deed, make  things  difficult  if  Noreen,  whom  I  was  to 
supersede,  and  Hing,  whose  confidence  I  must  gain, 
and  this  woman  with  the  low  greasy  forehead  and 
iron  jaw,  should  all  agree  to  look  upon  me  as  a  guest 
cheated  of  her  visit  by  a  death  in  the  house,  who  pro- 
posed to  stay  and  assume  command  of  the  disorgan- 
ized establishment.  Whether  this  misunderstanding 
were  real  or  pretended  on  Mrs.  Lavinus's  part,  I  saw 
she  meant  to  work  it  to  her  own  interest.  She  very 
likely  thought  it  rather  clever  of  me,  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  confusion  to  install  myself  in  the  new-made 
widower's  house.  I  could  see  it  in  her  amused,  hard, 
speculating  eye. 

I  had  packed  in  the  bottom  of  my  trunk  all  my 

92 


AUNT  EDITH 

photographs  from  the  Old  Masters,  papa's  gifts,  se- 
lected by  him  abroad.  On  top,  as  the  trunk  stood 
open,  could  be  seen  one  of  Michelangelo's  Titans, 
from  the  ceiling  of  the  Sistine  chapel.  Mrs.  Lavinus 
caught  a  glimpse  of  it  through  its  covering  of  tissue- 
paper.  She  hitched  her  chair  closer  and  raised  the 
paper.  I  heard  an  exclamation. 

**  Do  you  mean  them  things  to  be  looked  at  I  Ex- 
cuse meT^  She  held  up  the  large  photograph  to 
examine  it,  but  worse  lay  underneath.  The  reclining 
figure  of  Adam  receiving  the  divine  spark  from  the 
finger  of  Jehovah,  from  the  same  series  of  the  Creation. 

"  Well,  I  been  in  some  funny  places  I "  I  heard  her 
ejaculate,  "  but  I  never  struck  nothin'  like  this.  You 
better  leave  them  things  right  where  they  be  I  I 
would  n't  advise  you  to  have  'em  around  in  a  house 
with  men-folks  and  a  little  girl  like  Phoebe.  'Makes 
me  most  ashamed  to  look  at  'em  myself  and  I  seen 
plenty  of  sick  folks  just  as  naked  as  the  Lord  made 
'em." 

She  leaned  back  from  my  scandalous  collection 
with  a  frown  of  actual  bewilderment.  "  —  And  if  there 
ain't  another  naked  man  ! "  she  screamed,  "  if  it  is  a 
man?"  My  poor  Hermes  stood  on  the  bureau  no 
longer  clothed  in  even  a  pocket-handkerchief.  I 
buried  my  face  in  throes  of  horrible  untimely  laugh- 
ter that  bordered  on  hysteria,  and  Mrs.  Lavinus,  re- 
garding me  with  irony  as  well  as  suspicion,  agreed 
it  was  enough  to  make  a  horse  laugh  !  —  such  an  ex- 
hibition in  a  young  lady's  bedroom. 

"  Say  J "  she  relented,  to  give  me  one  more  chance, 

93 


EDITH  BONHAM 

**  I  don't  talk  about  what  I  see  and  hear  in  other  peo- 
ple's houses,  but  what  kind  of  a  place  is  it  you  do 
come  from  ?  I  know  there 's  all  kinds  in  New  York 
same  as  everywhere,  and  I  would  n't  say  but  what 
you  seem  like  a  lady  all  right.  But  what  do  you  want 
of  them  things  out  here,  would  you  just  tell  me  —  if 
it 's  true  you  come  out  to  teach  a  little  girl  ?  " 

Mrs.  Lavinus,  as  I  learned  later,  was  a  person 
whose  presence  had  often  been  welcomed  in  that 
land  of  little  help,  with  almost  desperate  relief.  Dire 
necessity  levels  one's  standards,  and  most  of  her 
patients  had  no  standards  higher  than  her  own.  She 
told  me,  in  the  course  of  incessant  talking  during 
meals  which  we  shared,  most  of  the  adventures  and 
hardships  of  her  own  life  and  all  she  had  time  to  tell 
of  the  private  affairs  of  her  patients ;  she  used  the 
language  of  her  profession  and  went  into  its  details 
without  mercy.  Yet  she  was  a  woman  of  intrepid 
courage  and  wild  experience,  if  her  stories  were  true. 
She  had  borne  children  in  extremity  and  lost  them 
by  the  will  of  Heaven,  she  deemed,  or  the  hand  of 
fate.  She  could  be  a  devoted  nurse  and  work  day  and 
night  doing  wrong  things  with  unshaken  faith  in 
everything  except  medical  science  and  educated  doc- 
tors. Of  these  she  had  her  suspicions,  and  she  ex- 
plained that  she  was  doing  her  best  with  her  baby 
(Nanny's  little  son)  in  spite  of  **  Doc  Davenport,  who 
thinks  he  knows  it  all!'* 


IX 

Dick  Grant  stayed  over  a  day  longer  than  he  had 
^aid,  and  came  early  next  evening  on  purpose  to  see 
Phcebe.  We  received  him  on  the  side-piazza  steps, 
and  Phoebe  rejoiced  greatly  to  be  swung  aloft  in  his 
grasp  and  let  down  gently,  with  a  long,  quiet  look 
into  her  upraised  face.  **  Again  !  more  1 "  she  begged. 

"  No  more,"  said  Dick.  "  Must  n't  get  too  excited 
before  bedtime." 

As  this  seemed  to  be  partly  addressed  to  me,  I 
smiled  and  asked  how  he  knew  all  that. 

"  I  've  been  around  a  good  deal,  in  this  family,"  he 
said  simply. 

He  gently  transferred  the  little  maid  from  her 
seat  between  us  on  the  steps  to  his  lap,  where  she 
played  with  his  braided-leather  watch-chain  attached 
to  a  cheap  silver  watch.  With  my  sensational  ideas 
brought  from  the  East  I  asked  if  that  meant  **  hold- 
ups" on  the  road  to  the  mines?  As  I  watched  his 
smile,  with  head  bent  and  eyes  fixed  on  the  child,  I 
saw  he  was  like  the  Young  Hermes  —  in  a  blue  serge 
suit  and  fair  hair  close-waved  about  the  temples  that 
were  wingless. 

We  talked  guardedly  on  account  of  little  pitchers, 
but  in  any  case  I  should  have  had  many  things  to 
decide  in  my  own  mind  before  I  began  to  bother  Dick. 
And  I  could  not  talk  about  servants  to  him — at  least 

95 


EDITH  BONHAM 

I  supposed  I  could  not.  I  had  not  the  full  measure  of 
his  usefulness  in  **this  family."  One  could  see  he 
was  a  dear,  dependable  boy.  There  would  always  be 
that  delightful  seriousness  about  him  and  modesty 
of  a  person  gentle-bred  who  does  one  or  two  things 
very  well.  The  things  he  did  were  different  from  the 
things  they  did  —  the  geniusy  youths  whom  I  grew 
up  among,  hanging  about  the  studio,  sometimes  in 
love  with  mamma  (till  she  was  past  forty)  or  piling 
their  love-torments  in  other  directions  upon  her  in- 
exhaustible patience  and  pity,  but  I  felt  I  had  known 
Dick's  kind  all  my  life.  He  was  a  New  York  boy, 
too,  and  had  gone  to  Charlier's,  —  the  old  Charlier 
School  on  Madison  Square,  —  which  also  made  us  at 
home  with  each  other. 

It  had  not  taken  any  time  at  all  to  recognize  his 
trouble,  as  old  as  the  hills.  Perhaps  Nanny  never 
knew  it.  She  was  preoccupied,  and  Dick  had  fine 
qualities  at  his  command.  He  might  have  been  un- 
selfish enough  never  to  let  her  see  it.  It  took  me 
back  to  her  tale  of  the  mesa  —  lonely  little  chatelaine 
on  her  dry  hill ;  "  hands,"  men  of  all  sorts,  and  four- 
footed  beasts  raising  a  dust  around  her  and  all  the 
good  money  in  the  ground  spent  in  vain.  Dick  must 
have  been  older  than  he  looked,  for  he  had  been  out 
there,  part  of  and  witness  of  all  she  endured.  No 
wonder  he  had  loved  her.  And,  I  added  to  myself, 
no  wonder  a  reader  of  men,  as  a  "  good  boss"  must 
be,  had  trusted  him.  But  she  was  the  one  who  must 
have  quite  unconsciously  decided  the  course  of  that 
perilous  partnership. 

96 


AUNT  EDITH 

Dick  could  not  talk  of  her  himself,  but  he  hun- 
gered to  hear  me  talk,  and  I  could  n't — before  Phoebe. 
A  question  or  two  that  he  could  answer,  I  asked  in 
French,  and  he  replied  as  a  Charlier  boy  should, 
though  he  said  he  was  rusty.  I  saw  how  it  had  hap- 
pened that  not  one  person  in  the  house  knew  what  I 
had  come  for  or  why  I  stayed.  Nanny's  letter  to  me  had 
been  not  only  her  last,  but  the  closing-up  of  her  affairs. 
Dick  had  posted  it  to  catch  the  early  stage  and  had 
returned  to  saddle  his  horse  and  ride  to  Silver  City. 
There  he  had  stayed  till  the  news  came  of  the  end. 
He  knew  nothing  of  what  had  happened  ;  but  I  was 
sure  he  felt  that  he,  or  indeed  almost  any  one,  could 
have  done  better  than  those  who  had  had  her  life 
in  charge,  though  all  he  said  was  :  "  She  was  just  as 
well  as  you  are —  and  then  she  was  gone  I " 

Phoebe  had  fallen  asleep  as  we  sat  murmuring  of 
things  she  could  not  understand.  Dick  carried  her  up- 
stairs when  Noreen  came  for  her  (I  was  not  intruding 
yet  on  the  old  routine).  As  he  lifted  her  gently,  one 
arm  and  limp  little  hand  slid  off  his  shoulder.  I  laid 
my  cheek  against  it ;  it  was  warm  like  a  soft  little 
bird.  It  was  easy  to  see  how  one  might  go  distracted 
over  anything  like  Phoebe  if  it  were  one's  own,  and 
lose  all  sense  of  proportion. 

When  Dick  came  back  we  talked  business  a  few 
moments.  He  gave  me  a  thin  yellow  book  like  a 
butcher' s-book,  but  it  was  a  bank-book.  Mr.  Ma- 
clay  had  deposited  to  my  credit  a  month's  salary  ("  if 
satisfactory  "  ;  the  amount,  I  supposed  he  meant :  it 
was  too  embarrassingly  large  to  be  satisfactory).   I 

97 


EDITH  BONHAM 

was  very  shy  of  the  whole  matter,  and  Dick  felt  a  little 
awkward  too. 

"  It's  a  great  deal  too  much,"  I  said.  "  I  'm  one  of 
these  wretched  amateurs." 

"  We  're  all  amateurs  out  here,"  he  said  gallantly. 
"  I  was  to  have  gone  to  France  to  buy  silks  and  laces : 
hence  Charlier's.  I  came  out  here  to  try  my  'prentice 
hand  —  on  the  dog,  as  you  might  say.  I  met  Maclay 
and  took  the  first  job  he  had  for  me  —  anything  so 
that  I  could  stay.  The  country  had  got  hold  of  me. 
But  Maclay  is  n't  an  amateur.  He  knows  responsi- 
bility does  n't  come  cheap.  He  expects  you  to  run 
everything  and  everybody  in  this  house  connected 
with  his  children,  and  of  course  he  '11  pay  accord- 
ingly." 

I  glanced  around.  The  door  was  open  into  the 
dining-room;  Mrs.  Lavinus's  door  also  stood  open. 
It  was  her  way  of  airing  a  room,  and  she  liked  to  hear 
what  was  going  on  —  I  think  she  heard  Dick,  I  think 
she  was  very  carefully  trying  to  hear  what  we  were 
saying,  when  we  spoke  in  English.  It  was  part  of 
keeping  an  eye  on  a  young  person  who  had  queer  pic- 
tures in  her  trunk,  and  showed  other  signs  of  a  very 
free-and-easy  bringing  up.  I  had  heard  her  more  or 
less  of  the  time  "  patting  "  the  baby  a  sound  rather  like 
a  gardener  spanking  a  piece  of  new-laid  sod  with  the 
back  of  his  spade,  and  this  thumping  had  ceased.  If 
she  had  heard,  there  was  no  help  for  it:  the  news  that 
I  was  at  liberty  to  discharge  her  would  have  to  be 
broken  to  her  some  time.  I  imagined  there  would 
be  no  need  now  to  break  Noreen's  share  of  it  to  her. 

98 


AUNT  EDITH 

I  went  down  to  the  gate  with  my  caller,  and  as  it 
was  early  yet  we  walked  up  and  down  once  or  twice, 
and  I  remained  still  pacing  the  ditch-path  after 
Dick  was  gone.  There  had  been  a  long,  entrancing 
twilight  (we  were  pretty  far  north),  and  now  the 
sallow  afterglow  took  up  the  tale.  There  was  not  a 
shadow,  merely  a  slow,  soft  lapse  of  light.  By  what 
was  left,  I  saw  crossing  the  grass  towards  me  from  the 
rear  porch  a  woman,  probably  our  neighbor  in  the 
little  house.  She  was  short  and  plump,  dressed  in 
a  black  skirt  too  long  for  wet  grass,  and  bareheaded 
as  befitted  the  place  and  hour.  A  light  knitted  shawl 
she  wore  crossed  over  her  full  bust  was  held  tight 
against  her  waist  by  a  pair  of  round  brown  arms.  She 
let  them  fall  as  we  met  with  an  inclination  which 
achieved  grace,  though  she  was  not  in  person  graceful. 

**  Is  it  Miss  Bonham  ?  I  have  heard  that  you  came 
yesterday.  I  was  just  now  in  the  house,  but  you  had 
your  company.  If  it  is  not  too  late  I  am  coming  to 
pay  you  a  little  visit  ?  " 

Without  any  defined  accent  she  spoke  in  a  cadence 
that  was  not  English,  but  all  the  more  charming  for 
that.  The  management  of  the  hands,  the  whole  fig- 
ure, showed  other  blood  than  ours.  I  welcomed  it 
just  then,  after  the  pure  Western-American  type  of 
Mrs.  Lavinus  (if  that  was  her  type),  and  my  greeting 
probably  showed  it. 

She  did  not  presume ;  she  walked  beside  me  on 
the  path,  but  when  a  bigger  tree-bole  intruded  to 
narrow  it  she  stepped  back  herself  before  I  could, 
with  the  same  grace  in  her  inelegant  proportions, 

99 


EDITH  BONHAM 

Her  voice  was  very  soft  and  well  managed ;  the  effect 
altogether  on  my  nerves  was  that  of  beauty  or  music 
of  a  primitive  kind  that  you  do  not  compare  or  criti- 
cize, but  just  yield  to  for  the  time. 

"  If  you  are  the  neighbor  who  took  in  little  Phoebe," 
I  said,  "  her  mother's  friend  owes  you  a  great  many 
thanks,  Mrs. ?" 

"  *  Pettyjohn.'  It  is  so  they  call  it  here.  You  owe 
me  no  thanks,  no  thanks.  Miss,  for  that  lovely  lady  I 
My  God,  to  go  like  that  I  And  she  was  my  friend 
too.  Every  evening  like  this  we  walk  together.  She 
always  say  to  me,  *  Come  over  as  often  as  you  want 
—  the  place  is  yours;  make  yourself  at  home'"  — 
*'ad  'ome"  ;  she  softened  her  consonants  and  slipped 
a  vowel  now  and  then.  "  It  was  my  home.  Miss  I  I 
hear  you  have  been  in  the  Catholic  countries.  You 
know  what  is  the  place  of  a  priest  among  his  peo- 
ple ?  That  was  my  uncle.  Father  Lanfrey.  He  own 
all  this."  She  looked  around,  and  up  at  the  trees ; 
she  opened  her  arms  wide  and  sighed.  **  It  is  a  change 
— from  that  big  house,  the  fine  cool  rooms,  the  ceil- 
ing so  grand,  the  wall-paper — to  my  little,  little 
cabin.  One  room.  Miss,  and  a  bed  in  that  room,  and 
a  kitchen  —  for  a  doll !  A  doll's  house.  But  I  am  no 
doll,  ha  I  I  work  —  I  do  not  spare  my  hands.  See!" 
She  spread  them  both  before  me.  "And  while  my 
uncle  live  not  one  thing,  not  one  thing!  Noreen 
O'Shea,  her  mother,  —  she  will  tell  you  !  and  she  will 
say  I  was  one  big  fool  when  I  marry  Petitjean.  Ha, 
do  I  not  know  it  1  It  shows  upon  me  plain  as  the  day 
what  a  fool  I  was.  Do  me  the  pleasure,  Miss,  to  come 

100 


AUNT  EDITH 

and  visit  me.  You  shall  see  my  folly  in  the  house  I 
inhabit  now  that  Petit  jean  has  thrown  away  my  for- 
tune that  I  had  from  my  poor  uncle.  He  left  me  rich, 
richy  Miss  I  I  was  the  mistress  of  that  house,  of  all 
this  place  from  that  road  to  this,  and  the  meadow 
and  the  stable  on  the  other  side.  It  was  the  chore- 
man  lived  there  who  made  the  garden  and  took  care 
of  the  horse,  where  I  am  living  now.  I  —  where  he 
lived,  my  uncle's  hired  man  I  '  Poor  Eugenie  P  I  can 
hear  him  speak  to  me  in  those  leaves  above  my  head 
of  the  trees  he  planted  ;  '  Poor  Eugenie  I '  '*  She  laid 
one  hand  upon  her  breast.  "  That  is  how  it  is  with 
'poor  Eugenie'  these  days ! " 

Here,  I  thought,  might  have  been  innocent  amuse- 
ment for  lonely  Nanny,  now  and  then,  but  in  the  fre- 
quency of  those  evening  walks,  and  the  freedom  of 
the  place  at  all  times,  I  did  not  put  much  faith.  That 
was  not  much  like  an  Aylesford.  And  I  should  prob- 
ably have  to  moderate  my  own  indulgence  in  the 
pleasing  change  from  pure  unadulterated  American- 
ism embodied  in  Mrs.  Lavinus,  to  this  seductive  little 
person  of  the  shadows, — neither  a  lady  nor  a  servant, 
but  with  that  touch  of  temperamental  insanity  one 
so  welcomes  now  and  then  after  heavy  doses  of  the 
literal-minded.  I  thought  it  would  depend  upon  my- 
self to  choose  how  much  we  should  see  of  each  other ; 
I  was  involved  much  deeper  than  I  knew. 


Next  morning  I  took  up  my  duties  a  little  more 
definitely  and  things  began  to  fall  into  shape,  not 
without  friction  on  Noreen's  part:  Mrs.  Lavinus  I 
did  not  meddle  with  as  yet.  There  had  been  a  hitch 
between  the  two  as  to  which  should  wash  the  baby's 
little  things  by  dozens  that  could  not  go  to  "the 
Chinaman  "  nor  to  the  steam-laundry,  with  the  fam- 
ily wash.  Hing,  I  found,  did  the  bed-  and  table-linen, 
but  refused  to  include  anything  of  Mrs.  Lavinus's, 
for  personal  reasons  which  he  made  perfectly  plain : 
I  did  not  blame  him. 

"  She  wash  herself —  I  wash  her  sheet.  She  no 
wash,  /  no  wash  ! "  This  was  an  ultimatum. 

Between  Noreen  and  Mrs.  Lavinus  the  question 
had  been  settled  out  of  hand  by  the  latter  walking 
across  the  yard  with  the  baby's  wash  and  leaving  it 
to  Mrs.  Pettyjohn's  good-nature  to  help  out  a  neigh- 
bor. I  suggested  to  Noreen  (never  having  heard  of 
a  professional  nurse  who  would  do  washing)  that,  as 
I  should  now  relieve  her  at  certain  hours  with  Phoebe, 
she  might  find  time  herself  to  do  the  baby-things. 
She  agreed  with  me  that  enough  of  the  work  was  be- 
ing sent  out.  However,  she  carried  the  matter  to  her 
excellent  mother  and  Mrs.  O'Shea  added  her  word 
to  our  counsels.  I  shall  not  tamper  with  her  delicious 
brogue  in  any  of  my  feeble  imitations. 

102 


AUNT  EDITH 

She  said,  in  one  long,  flowing  sentence,  that  there 
was  plenty  of  help  in  the  house  if  every  one  did  what 
they  were  paid  for.  That  Mrs.  Lavinus  was  used 
enough  to  wash  for  her  patients,  both  mother  and 
baby,  and  in  many  a  place  she  would  have  the  man 
to  cook  for  and  the  children  to  mind,  so  she  need  n't 
be  putting  on  any  airs.  She  was  having  the  time  of 
her  life  and  if  we  made  it  too  easy  for  her  the  life 
would  last  a  long  time.  Noreen  was  not  one  to  count 
a  few  bits  of  washing  here  and  there,  but  the  non- 
sense of  it,  that  woman  claiming  she  had  no  more  to 
do  than  sit  under  a  baby  from  morning  to  night! 
But,  not  to  make  trouble  in  the  house,  Mrs.  O'Shea 
for  the  present  would  do  up  the  baby-things  herself : 
thus  the  principle  was  maintained  and  the  bills  not 
increased  through  Noreen  being  afraid  of  any  little 
thing  she'd  lay  a  hand  to.  Mr.  Maclay,  poor  man, 
was  paying  out  enough,  with  three  women  and  a 
Chinaman  in  it  and  naught  but  two  children  to  do 
for.  To  drag  in  more  help  was  a  scandal.  Thus  Mrs. 
O'Shea:  —  "And  not  a  cent  will  it  cost  him  whatever 
/'ll  do.  A  grand  man !  — grand  folks  they  were  and 
a  pity  there  was  n't  more  like  them." 

It  was  a  defeat  worth  many  a  victory.  Mrs.  La- 
vinus was  supposed  to  feel  keenly  the  reproach  of 
those  baby-clothes  sent  in  in  speckless  piles,  but  it 
is  doubtful  if  she  did.  She  eyed  Mrs.  O'Shea's  iron- 
ing with  a  critical  smile  and  remarked  the  woman 
had  better  buy  herself  a  pair  of  spectacles :  her  work 
looked  as  if  she  had  done  it  in  the  dark. 

That  evening  I  walked  again  under  the  poplars 
103 


EDITH  BONHAM 

and  ag-ain  was  joined  by  my  short  and  shadowy 
companion  from  across  the  yard.  I  asked  her  with- 
out any  sentiment  to  give  me  the  amount  of  her  bill, 
her  wash-bill  —  and  thanked  her  for  helping  us  out 
in  an  emergency. 

**  Nothing,  nothing,  Miss  I  No ;  I  do  what  I  can 
when  such  trouble  comes,  but  I  do  not  take  in  wash- 
ing. You  have  misunderstood.  I  do  what  I  can  — 
anything,  for  the  sake  of  such  a  friend  as  the  lady 
we  lost.  I  never  can  forget  her  —  no,  never!" 

It  was  a  case  for  a  little  more  tact  than  I  had 
shown,  but  my  mistake  was  forgiven.  Very  soon  the 
stream  of  soft,  measured  syllables  began  to  pour 
forth ;  our  steps  agreed,  we  turned  at  each  end  of 
the  path  in  perfect  time.  I  saw  how  the  little  woman 
could  have  danced. 

"  Ah,  Miss  I  What  an  hour  for  those  confidences 
between  friends  I  I  never  see  the  stranger  I  could 
feel  so  near  to  from  the  first  hour  we  met !  Here, 
where  I  come  to  rest  my  eyes  from  the  bare  ground 
in  my  back  yard,  looking,  looking  at  the  trees  and 
the  grass  — like  I  was  a  prisoner  with  one  little  hour 
to  breathe  the  fresh  air.  It  comes  so  easy.  Miss,  to 
tell  you  the  secret  of  my  heart,"  she  murmured, 
"  and  how  it  is  I  can  bear  what  I  bear  now.  I  wait  I 
In  less  than  two  months  my  happiness  will  come. 
May  is  my  month  —  he  comes,  my  sailor-gentleman, 
my  lover !  We  are  to  be  married.  — A  medical  officer, 
on  board  the  ship  I  made  my  first  voyage  on  to 
France.  It  is  not  much,  the  salary  —  it  is  very  little. 
But  my  father 's  aunt  in  Normandy  has  left  me  her 

104 


AUNT  EDITH 

small  savings.  I  make  the  trip  to  see  about  that 
money,  and  so  I  meet  my  fate  1  A  man  any  woman 
—  yourself,  Miss  —  would  be  proud  to  love.  Ah, 
PetitjeanI  Him?"  —  I  had  not  questioned  her  —  **I 
give  you  my  word  I  have  not  seen  that  man  in  two 
years  I  If  he  is  dead  I  do  not  know ;  I  am  rid  of 
him  !  But,  Miss,"  —  her  voice  fell,  —  "  in  our  Church 
they  are  very  hard  upon  those  who  have  the  unhap- 
piness  in  marriage.  Because  I  make  this  one  big 
mistake  I  must  be  yoked  with  it  now  for  the  rest  of 
my  life.  I  cannot  be  happy,  I  shall  not  make  my 
good  lover  happy  —  not  though  I  never  see  that 
man  Petitjean  again.  No  priest  can  marry  us.  No 
church  will  have  us  at  the  altar.  Very  good  I  We  go 
before  the  magistrate.  But  where,  I  ask  you  ?  Will 
you  step  into  my  little  cabin,  Miss,  —  my  chicken- 
coop  1  Not  that  you  will  find  the  chicken,  ha,  ha ! 
But  small  —  one  room  and  a  bed  in  that  room. 
Hardly  three  person  can  stand  on  the  floor.  —  Ah, 
Miss ;  I  might  have  stood  up  with  my  brave  doctor 
in  that  beautiful  bay-window  of  the  house  that  was 
my  home.  I  do  not  ask  that  —  my  God,  no  I  Do  I 
not  see  as  I  speak  to  you  what  lay  there  so  white !  I 
would  not  dream  of  asking  that  of  the  poor  husband 
so  soon  —  not  in  one  month,  or  two  I  But  the  dining- 
room.  Miss:  what  is  that?  What  ^^^ference  could 
it  make  to  Mr.  Maclay  up  in  Silver  City  if  we  make 
our  little  procession  across  the  green  grass  and  be 
married  in  that  room  what  nobody  use  but  to  eat  I 
It  is  not  even  the  house — it  is  the  wing  I " 
When  there  seems  nothing  left  in  the  world  to  laugh 
105 


EDITH  BONHAM 

at,  and  we  feel  as  if  we  should  never  want  to  laugh 
again,  remains  always  the  maniacal  seriousness  of 
us  poor  humans,  each  involved  in  his  own  craze.  My 
aging  boy  of  a  father,  his  hand  in  his  brother-mani- 
ac's, chasing  down  the  world  to  find  the  end  of  a 
rainbow  he  beheld  once  when  he  was  twenty-three. 
And  my  Nanny  —  at  the  end  of  her  rainbow  —  in  the 
priest's  bay-window;  and  Mrs.  Pettyjohn  coveting 
the  place  for  her  second  nuptials ;  and  I  alone,  after 
all  the  dreams,  taking  in  my  fearful  hands  the  task 
we  had  promised  each  other  to  share  —  I  whom 
Essie  would  not  have  trusted  overnight  alone  with 
one  of  her  own  brood  (though  she  trusted  almost  any 
nursemaid  she  could  hire  for  seven  dollars  a  week). 
Surely  it  was  enough  to  make  one  sob  with  laugh- 
ter. But  I  am  not  often  overtaken  as  when  Mrs.  La- 
vinus  first  became  acquainted  with  the  art  of  Michel- 
angelo. 

Well;  at  least  we  —  that  is  Mr.  Maclay  —  could 
give  Mrs.  Pettyjohn  a  piece  of  wedding  silver  and 
square  the  washing-account.  In  my  experience  as  a 
woman  and  sometime  housekeeper,  the  family  wash 
is  one  of  the  points  on  which  the  family  existence 
seems  to  pivot.  No  wonder  it  passes  for  one  defini- 
tion of  a  home. 

The  business  part  of  Dick's  call  had  included  a  re- 
quest from  his  chief  that  I  should  send  him  weekly 
reports  on  the  children's  health  and  domestic  matters 
generally,  to  keep  up  the  circulation,  as  it  were,  be- 
tween the  two  halves  of  his  being.  It  seemed  little 
enough  to  ask,  but  herein  I  saw  I  should  have  a 

io6 


AUNT  EDITH 

chance  to  earn  a  portion  of  my  preposterous  salary. 
I  am  not  practiced  in  writing  reports,  and  I  was  on 
frightfully  delicate  ground  with  this  reticent,  wounded 
man.  Moreover,  I  had  some  pride  on  my  own  ac- 
count. In  his  business  he  must  have  had  to  be  always 
pushing  aside  importunate  but  not  important  little 
matters  —  and  now  to  get  it  weekly  from  what  was 
left  of  his  home  —  my  threadbare  reports  after  Nan- 
ny^s  letters  I  I  should  have  nothing  to  write  of  but 
fusses  between  the  servants  and  the  personal  habits 
of  Mrs.  Lavinus.  I  might  go  off  in  raptures  over 
Phoebe,  but  there  was  not  much  danger  there  for 
either  of  us. 

I  labored  hard  over  those  letters :  I  re-wrote,  I  ex- 
cised, and  put  back,  and  transposed  sentences,  —  I 
even  copied,  humbly  as  a  school-child  thanking  eld- 
erly relatives  for  exactly  the  wrong  gift  at  Christmas, 
—  and  expected  to  hide  the  fact.  I  hid  everything  I 
could  connected  with  my  private  frame  of  mind.  And 
I  hesitated  to  present  Mrs.  Pettyjohn's  appeal.  She 
sighed  over  the  delay  which  I  did  not  explain  —  she 
said  it  was  very  inconvenient  not  to  know  ;  she  was 
lying  awake  every  night  with  the  horror  of  it — see- 
ing herself  reduced  to  the  chicken-coop  at  last. 
Would  I  please  speak  soon?  I  yielded  and  wrote, 
though  I  should  have  much  preferred  to  leave  the 
matter  for  her  to  settle  with  Mr.  Maclay  personally 
when  he  came  down.  The  answer  was  one  sentence, 
a  curt  negative ;  at  least  it  seemed  curt  to  me  who 
had  it  to  deliver,  — and  a  check  to  "make  it  right *' 
with  Mrs.  Pettyjohn,  either  in  that  form  or  any  form 

107 


EDITH  BONHAM 

I  thought  best :  I  was  to  choose  the  form.  There  was 
no  recognition  of  her  claim  to  be  considered  a  friend 
or  an  equal  or  even  a  neighbor  in  affliction.  It  was 
"  right "  enough  if  he  felt  that  way,  but  it  left  me  with 
a  very  unpleasant  errand.  I  resolved  to  wait  and  try 
once  more  in  words  when  —  if  ever  —  he  came  down 
to  see  his  child. 


XI 

Dick  had  arrived  a  third  time ;  he  was  becoming 
apologetic.  This  time  his  chief,  he  said,  had  posi- 
tively intended  to  come  himself,  but  was  prevented 
at  the  last  moment.  When  a  certain  business  tele- 
gram had  been  received,  if  it  did  not  send  him  off 
somewhere  else,  as  it  might,  he  would  surely  come 
—  if  only  for  a  day.  Dick  fumbled  his  wording  of 
these  second-hand  excuses  which  it  struck  me  were 
probably  his  own ;  I  was  frankly  irritated. 

I  said  outright :  "  There  is  no  necessity  of  his  apol- 
ogizing to  me,  or  your  apologizing  for  him.  If  he 
dreads  me  half  as  much  as  I  dread  him,  I  wonder  he 
comes  at  all.  That  is,  if  he  can  stand  it  not  to  see 
Phoebe." 

By  this  time  Dick  and  I  were  saying  pretty  much 
what  we  felt  to  each  other.  He  was  my  only  safety- 
valve.  But  there  was  another  side  to  our  fast-grow- 
ing intimacy  that  bored  and  annoyed  me.  I  too  loved 
Ophelia,  but  I  didn't  sit  and  brood  over  it  in  stern 
silence  and  look  at  the  stars  as  if  I  saw  her  there. 
It  was  indecent  for  him  to  set  up  a  lovesick  bereave- 
ment of  his  own  in  the  face  of  our  common  sacred 
sorrow.  I  thought  he  had  better  be  shaken  out  of  his 
obsession  that  fate  should  have  reserved  Nanny  for 
a  different  and  younger  man ;  that  he  should  prob- 
ably die  unwedded  since  he  would  never  see  another 

109 


EDITH  BONHAM 

like  her.  I  did  not  dispute  that,  but  I  would  have 
predicted  without  a  blush  that  in  one  or  two  more  of 
these  visits  he  would  be  in  love  with  me  if  the  thing 
had  not  already  occurred.  He  was  exactly  like  a  sen- 
timental widower  in  the  first  stage  of  offering  himself 
to  number  two.  Therefore  in  my  heart  I  derided  him, 
yet  forgave  him,  for  I  knew  so  well  his  kind.  He  was 
a  *'  queener,"  but  his  queening  would  always  be  chiv- 
alrous and  never  common.  I  saw  I  was  destined  to 
my  late  Nanny's  throne,  and  mocked  myself  of  the 
fate  before  me.  Yet  in  bare  self-defense  and  to  shield 
her  memory,  I  prepared  to  do  my  duty  in  the  case. 
He  would  get  little  joy  of  me,  but  he  might  get  a 
few  counter-pangs  to  medicine  his  woe.  A  good  deal 
of  the  time  I  wanted  to  shake  him ;  and  he  was  bring- 
ing me  round  to  the  side  of  the  Black  Douglas  as 
chapters  of  laudation  could  not  have  done. 

I  had  just  come  down  from  putting  Phcebe  to  bed. 
That  was  the  day's  crowning  duty  now,  and  I  did 
not  forget  the  bedtime  prayer.  I  thought  even  more 
of  it,  perhaps,  because  my  own  prayers  had  ended 
at  my  tired  little  mother's  knees.  Dick  had  carried 
her  up  and  she  had  given  him  his  usual  payment. 

"  Phoebe  sends  you  another  *  good-night,'  "  I  said, 
as  we  began  our  usual  walk  on  the  ditch-path. 

"Good-night  what?" 

"Good-night  kiss,"  I  answered,  careless  of  conse- 
quences. 

"  Where  is  it?"  Dick  came  back  correctly. 

One  does  n't  stoop  to  folly  with  a  child  like  Dick 
without  reason ;  I  have  stated  mine  —  perhaps  need- 
no 


AUNT  EDITH 

lessly :  twenty-seven  is  not  so  very  old,  and  playing 
with  pretty  boys  had  been  one  of  my  accomplish- 
ments formerly.  I  could  spare  it,  but  one  likes  to  take 
a  hand  in  an  old  game  just  to  convince  one's  self 
that  the  art  is  not  one  of  the  things  "  that  never  come 
again."  I  gave  Dick  my  hand  and  conventionally 
but  very  nicely  he  bent  his  Hermes  head  and  kissed 
it,  flushing  in  the  evening  light. 

The  next  moment  was  a  trifle  awkward  for  us  both. 
I  fell  back  on  my  usual  matter-of-factness.  "You've 
been  a  great  help  to  me,  Dick,  but  there 's  more  to 
come  I  Before  we  go  back  to  the  servant-question," 
—  we  had  come  to  it  finally ;  there  was  no  help  for 
it,  —  "I  want  to  ask  you  to  accept  a  little  keepsake 
from  me.  I  happen  to  know  it  is  your  birthday. 
Phoebe  told  me." 

"  Phoebe  should  n^t  tell  secrets." 

"  You  should  n't  have  secrets  with  Phoebe.  I  shall 
get  them  all  if  you  do.  Wait  here  while  I  get  zV." 

**  It "  was  my  cigarette-case  for  which  I  had  no  use 
now.  It  was  one  of  Jack's  finds,  which  he  swore  he 
had  got  for  a  song,  but  nobody  believed  him.  He 
was  afraid  to  give  it  to  Essie,  he  said,  but  he  got  his 
wigging  from  us  both,  and  I  kept  the  case :  there 
was  no  sentiment  between  Jack  and  me.  It  was  of 
dark,  dull  silver,  Russian  workmanship,  bearing  a 
crest  of  who  knows  who  ?  And  under  it  a  scroll  set 
with  tiny  turquoises  and  edged  with  tinier  brilliants 
like  a  blue  ribbon  with  a  sparkling  border. 

"  But  this  is  too  splendid,"  said  Dick.  "  I  *m  em- 
barrassed." 

Ill 


EDITH  BONHAM 

"Not  at  all:  it's  only  a  second-hand  thing  my 
brother-in-law  picked  up  and  chucked  at  me,  so  to 
speak.  Not  but  what  I  think  it  is  good." 

"  Good !  I  'm  afraid  I  don't  even  know  how 
good  it  is.  Looks  as  if  it  might  have  had  a  his- 
tory." 

**  I  dare  say  it 's  had  rather  a  checkered  career. 
Some  grand  duchess  was  robbed  by  her  maid,  per- 
haps. .  .  .  Neither  of  them  any  better  than  they 
should  be." 

Dick  had  opened  the  case  and  found  it  filled.  He 
looked  at  me  curiously. 

"  These  your  brother-in-law's  too  ?  " 

I  said  they  were  mine,  and  that  he  would  find  them 
*'  good  "  if  they  had  not  deteriorated. 

"You  smoke!"  said  he. 

"Not  now,  of  course."  I  had  in  fact  given  up 
cigarettes  early  in  the  winter.  Smoking  one  now 
and  then  with  papa  in  our  cozy  way  was  a  quite  dif- 
ferent thing  to  making  a  three-some  with  Captain 
Nashe.  I  had  never  permitted  him  to  see  me  smoke  ; 
another  of  those  little  definitions  papa  must  have  felt 
and  passed  over. 

"  Well,  frankly,  I  like  your  giving  it  up  '  now,'  " 
said  Dick. 

"Well,  frankly,"  I  retorted,  "I  should  think  that 
goes  without  saying.  It  seems  to  be  one  of  the  most 
obvious  comments  on  women's  smoking  anyhow  — 
though  I  don't  mean  to  be  narrow.  Do  your  women 
at  home  smoke?"  (I  knew  they  did  n't :  the  practice 
was  in  its  infancy  in  American  society  then.) 

112 


AUNT  EDITH 

"  No,'*  said  Dick  decidedly,  "  and  I  don't  think 
they  ever  will." 

"  But  you  '11  take  my  box  and  help  a  friend  to  save 
herself  from  temptation  ?  " 

"And,  not  to  be  *  narrow,'  will  you  smoke  a  last 
one  with  me  — as  a  sacrifice  to  duty?  " 

"  But  don't  let 's  be  too  oppressively  virtuous.  Call 
it  *  cakes  and  ale'  for  the  new  owner — the  uncriti- 
cized  masculine  who  can  do  as  he  pleases."  I  took 
a  sacrificial  cigarette — "I  burn  my  ships,"  said  I. 
Dick  gave  me  a  light  and  lighted  up  himself.  He  was 
getting  interested,  poor  little  brother  Dick  !  I  could 
have  convinced  him  in  two  shakes  that  smoking  was 
all  right  in  spite  of  my  ''  duties."  .  .  .  And  so  we 
walked  and  smoked  together  without  narrowness. 

"  To  return  to  the  servants,"  said  I,  "  do  you  mind 
their  gossiping  about  us?  I  see  Mrs.  Lavinus  stroll- 
ing apart  —  not  so  very  far  apart.  I  think  she  can 
see  us  —  me." 

"  Why,  I  don't  worry  much  about  the  servants  — 
have  n't  seen  many  since  I  came  out  here." 

"  You  'd  worry  more,  perhaps,  if  you  happened  to 
be  one  of  them  yourself.  I  think  I  shall  desist,  as  the 
saying  is.  It 's  a  form  of  amusement  too  worldly  for 
this  place." 

"  Are  you  serious?" 

"  I  can't  even  give  you  my  reasons  for  being  seri- 
ous :  I  'm  not  proud  of  them.  So,  here  's  for  coward- 
ice !  "  I  had  not  courage  to  complete  the  ceremony 
and  finish  my  cigarette  in  public — not  with  Mrs. 
Lavinus  for  the  public.  Remembering  also  that  she 

113 


EDITH  BONHAM 

might  have  seen  Dick  kissing  my  hand  —  he  had  no 
idea,  indeed  I  Nor  had  I  begun  as  yet  to  think  of  the 
world  outside  our  fences  that  now  was  my  world ;  I 
had  seen  so  litde  of  it.  But  I  was  uncomfortable  about 
Noreen  being  buzzed  at  by  Mrs.  Lavinus,  perhaps 
buzzing  back  to  have  her  own  impressions  of  the  new 
mistress  checked  off  according  to  the  weird  distor- 
tions of  the  Lavinus  mind. 

I  knew  that  in  coming  to  a  place  like  that  I  should 
need  much  poetry.  Where  there  are  no  musicians,  it 
is  music ;  where  there  is  no  painting  nor  sculpture, 
it  is  art ;  where  life  is  limited  and  centers  on  material 
things,  it  gives  wings  to  the  mind ;  where  there  is 
no  inspiring  talk,  it  is  "ashes  and  sparks,  my  words 
among  mankind."  It  is  the  concentrated  essence  and 
impact  of  a  human  soul.  And  so  I  had  brought  every 
poet  I  possessed  except  those  I  knew  I  should  find  on 
Nanny's  shelves.  In  my  Swinburnes,  in  each  volume, 
there  was  much  that  I  should  never  read  again  and 
in  each  there  were  one  or  two  poems  that  none  of  us 
can  spare.  I  went  into  my  room  one  day  and  went 
too  quickly  and  surprised  Noreen  poring  over  one  of 
my  Swinnys.  She  raised  a  heated  face  and  closed  the 
book,  confused  and  rather  breathless.  It  was  not  be- 
cause I  had  found  her  reading  when  she  might  have 
been  mending  —  she  had  been  encouraged  to  read 
books  of  my  selection.  It  was  what  we  know  is  wrong 
with  some  of  our  biggest  of  the  great  ones,  and  since 
they  cannot  die,  it  cannot  die,  but  remains  to  mar 
their  work, — to  provoke  curiosity  as  to  the  au- 
thor's age  and  the  period  it  marks,  and  what  stuff  of 

114 


AUNT  EDITH 

humanity  went  to  feed  the  immortal  flame.  The  psy- 
chology of  it  did  not  concern  either  Noreen  or  me, 
but  I  should  have  protected  the  immaturity  of  her 
mind.  Employers  are  sometimes  blamed  for  leaving 
money  and  jewels  around  to  tempt  character  in  the 
making.  This  was  a  subtler  but  not  less  irresponsible 
form  of  carelessness.  My  fault  I  And  I  saw  how  I 
should  be  punished. 

Nor  should  I  have  wished  to  assault  even  Mrs. 
Lavinus's  virgin  mind  with  the  sophistications  of  Old 
World  art,  but  that  was  an  accident.  In  a  measure  I 
had  lived  down  Michelangelo  with  Mrs.  Lavinus,  who 
was  shrewder  than  Noreen,  and  more  calculating, 
and  more  hardened  in  looking  out  for  herself.  She 
was  not  deceived  as  to  the  fact  that  I  was  a  person 
who  wielded  a  certain  sort  of  power ;  that  she  did 
not  know  what  sort  rather  helped  me  than  other- 
wise :  I  had  not  given  her  much  satisfaction  as  to 
my  past.  She  had  ceased  to  regard  me  as  "  gay  "  in 
her  sense  of  the  word.  If  she  defamed  me  to  Noreen, 
she  would  do  it  deliberately  now  —  to  get  me,  or 
Noreen,  out  of  the  way.  Between  us,  then,  there  was 
no  misunderstanding  to  speak  of;  it  was  simple 
war. 

And  yet  I  could  not  measure  its  importance.  I  was 
taken  up  with  other  things.  The  baby  was  horribly 
on  my  mind,  remembering  Nanny's  rules,  and  I 
could  do  nothing  there  as  yet.  Phoebe  watched  me 
and  took  in  every  word  and  never  forgot  one  that  I 
let  slip,  with  the  mental  helplessness  and  amazing 
perceptiveness  of  a  highly  intelligent,  sensitive  child 

115 


EDITH  BONHAM 

of  her  age.  I  had  never  listened  to  my  own  words, 
and  I  was  astonished  to  find  how  very  much  I  needed 
editing  from  this  new  point  of  view.  I  must  abandon 
hyperbole  and  bethink  me  of  every  possible  miscon- 
struction that  a  child's  imagination  can  put  upon  un- 
familiar words  and  expressions  of  her  elders.  I  no 
longer  rose  from  the  ground  of  literalness  in  my 
speech  unless  we  were  telling  stories.  Between  the 
child's  funny  little  ears  and  the  servants'  minds  I  cul- 
tivated a  habit  of  not  talking,  but  listening. 

Essie,  who  was  so  satisfactory  herself  when  you 
were  with  her,  did  not  shine  as  a  correspondent.  Her 
sisterly  conscience  did  not  remind  her  that  letters 
would  be  the  chief  food  of  my  existence  now.  Meager 
fare  she  gave  me,  yet  I  never  knew  before  how  I 
loved  her  and  depended  on  her  light,  cool  touch  upon 
my  congested  frames  of  mind.  And  she  loved  me  the 
same,  but  was  too  busy  to  say  so.  Jack,  when  he 
happened  to  feel  like  it,  would  chaff  me  now  and 
then  in  a  perfectly  unrealizing  way  which  amused  and 
hurt  a  little  too.  It  made  New  York  seem  very  far 
away.  Subconsciously,  I  must  have  worried  always 
about  papa.  Essie  had  nothing  to  tell  me  of  him  be- 
yond his  cables  —  of  course  he  would  not  write,  in  the 
throes  of  creation. 

As  for  the  West  —  I  had  left  it  behind  on  the  road 
from  Kuna,  with  the  meadow-larks  and  the  hot  sun 
on  the  sagebrush  and  the  soaring  sky  between  the 
far-off  blue  ranges  with  their  snow-capped  peaks.  I 
remembered  the  wind  and  the  simple  great  chord  of 
color  and  the  sting  of  the  air  and  its  odors,  but  that 

Ii6 


AUNT  EDITH 

was  as  far  away  too  as  New  York  or  Tahiti.  The 
pioneer  families  of  Boise,  and  perhaps  of  all  other 
little  fortuitous  towns,  seemed  to  have  shrunk  into 
their  little  yards  thick  with  trees  as  fast  as  they  could 
grow  trees,  away  from  Nature  as  they  found  her. 
They  must  have  found  her  too  much  for  them,  or  it 
was  pure  homesickness  as  genuine  but  different  from 
mine.  Lovely  tall  poplars  or  box-elders  or  cut-leaf 
maples  lined  the  streets ;  they  were  out  in  full  leaf 
now.  With  so  many  leaves  about  the  little  house 
you  could  not  see  the  mountains  or  the  sky.  Be- 
hind our  fences  in  the  priest's  garden  I  felt  stifled 
with  all  this  green,  and  I  was  restless  for  a  long,  fast 
walk  once  more.  Whoever  has  idled  along  with  a 
child's  uneven  step  beside  her,  though  she  may  fully 
accept  the  bonds,  will  remember  that  they  are  felt 
all  the  same.  Everything  about  one  is  in  bonds  to 
the  child  of  one's  care.  This  was  what  had  tired 
Nanny!  I  was  treading  in  her  footsteps — a  few 
weeks,  to  her  six  years.  I  stood  in  such  awe  of  my 
servant  household  that  I  should  n't  have  dreamed  of 
going  out  at  night  after  Phoebe  was  in  bed  —  follow- 
ing the  street  we  were  on  out  to  the  plain  between  us 
and  Boise  Barracks,  crossed  by  trails  the  soldiers 
made.  I  should  have  adored  to  meet  the  soldiers 
themselves,  gallant  chaps  with  white  stripes,  or  yel- 
low stripes  on  their  trousers,  —  for  the  troopers 
sometimes  walked.  They  also  rode  :  squads  of  them 
two  and  two  went  clattering  past  our  road-gate ;  we 
never  got  there  in  time  to  see  more  than  their  fiat, 
square  backs.  How  they  sat  those  big  bay  horses  1  I 

117 


EDITH  BONHAM 

had  never  known  a  rider's  thrills  —  and  well  I  had 
n't !  I  could  not  have  borne  any  more. 

As  to  the  town  ladies  calling  —  I  never  thought  of 
them ;  I  did  n't  know  who  they  were.  In  my  thoughts, 
practically  day  and  night,  were  three  women :  Nanny, 
Essie,  and  Nanny's  mother.  Nanny  for  pure  yearn- 
ing dumb  and  lasting  ;  Essie  for  mundane  pangs  of 
disappointment  day  by  day,  and  often  unjust  re- 
proaches repented  of  with  more  love ;  Mrs.  Aylesford 
for  a  quiet,  reverential  sort  of  pity,  knowing  that 
with  her  things  could  not  last  —  her  rest  would  come 
one  way  or  another  before  many  years  ;  that  was  not 
an  urgent  pain.  Callers  1  I  was  so  thankful  that  no 
one  came  to  perplex  my  life  any  further  —  and  all  of 
it  so  little  I  I  hope  I  have  not  exaggerated  my  blind 
wretchedness  at  this  time,  nor  overdone  my  impres- 
sions of  the  smallness  of  the  town.  I  know  it  was  con- 
sidered a  little  heaven  below  by  the  old  stage-driv- 
ers and  their  passengers,  when  they  saw  it  across  the 
river  after  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  I  think  I  was 
told  the  journey  used  to  be,  from  the  main  roads  of 
travel. 

.  .  .  And  so  to  return  to  our  walk  under  the 
poplars :  Dick  still  smoking  his  share  of  our  sacri- 
fice, I  inhaling  its  perfume  with  less  envy  of  his  act 
than  with  one  of  those  subtle  stabs  connected  with  the 
ordinary  sense  of  smell.  Why  should  our  noses  open, 
as  it  were,  into  our  very  souls  I  Of  course  a  dog's 
nose  does  —  I  have  watched  my  bull-terrier  on  a 
summer  night,  the  air  full  of  odors  near  and  far, 
planted  on  the  parapet  of  the  terrace  like  a  statue 

ii8 


AUNT  EDITH 

but  for  the  quivering"  of  his  nose  and  the  slight  shud- 
ders that  pass  over  his  tense,  tough  body.  We  must 
get  it  from  them  by  the  dark  backways  of  being.  I 
was  sick  with  old  memories  of  things  forgotten  and 
inexpressible,  only  because  it  was  a  night  of  spring 
and  I  was  still  young  and  I  breathed  the  odor  of  a 
young  man's  cigarette  of  a  brand  I  had  smoked  with 
papa  in  the  dear  old  studio  days  past  recall,  never  to 
return  —  such  was  my  foreboding.  Do  we  love  those 
who  belong  to  us  less  because  they  have  hurt  us  ? 
We  know  that  we  do  not.  There  seems  to  be  no  ap- 
preciable end  to  love  any  more  than  to  memory,  if 
we  make  an  imaginative  use  of  it.  As  to  partings 
—  there  are  worse  things  (and  I  hope  Mrs.  Aylesford 
knew  it)  than  the  clean  pang  of  death.  I  could  have 
wished  my  father  —  Of  course  I  did  not  wish  any- 
thing like  that  I 

"  Dick,"  I  said  "  there  is  something  I  dread  to  ask 
you,  but  it 's  time  I  did.  I  've  never  seen  —  where 
they  have — laid  her.  Is  it  a  place  it  would  kill  one 
to  see  ?  Say  so  if  it  is.  I  'd  rather  never  go." 

**  Oh,  you  must  go  I  —  some  one  ought  to  go.  I  Ve 
been  waiting  for  you  to  say  this." 

"Well,  where  is  it?" 
•    "  I  'd  rather  you  did  not  see  it  first  by  day;  that 's 
the  truth.  When  I  go,  I  go  evenings  —  after   I  Ve 
been  here  and  seen  Phoebe." 

'  (Oh,  Dick,  you  dear  boy)  —  "And  you  take  her 
flowers  ?  That 's  what  you  wanted  the  white  narcis- 
sus for  and  the  violets  1 " 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "She  planted  the  white  narcis- 
119 


EDITH  BONHAM 

sus  where  it  would  show  against  the  blue  flag.  She 
said  it  grew  like  that  at  her  old  home." 

"  Oh,  Dick  I  And  I  suppose  they  are  the  only 
flowers  she  has  had  1   I  have  been  so  selfish  1  '* 

*'  Oh,  not  you  I "  said  Dick  with  savage  emphasis. 
**  But  there  are  flowers  sometimes  —  I  met  the  one 
who  brings  them,  one  evening.  She  was  coming  in 
as  I  came  out.  I  watched  and  saw  what  she  did  ;  they 
were  hothouse  flowers.  She  must  have  bought  them 
or  begged  them.  It  was  little  Mrs.  Pettyjohn.  She 
sort  of  adored  Mrs.  Maclay.'* 

"  Well,  when  can  we  go  ?  If  not  by  day  you  must 
come  early  some  evening  —  come  to  tea.  We  have 
dinner  in  the  middle  of  the  day  on  Phoebe's  ac- 
count." 

"  I  wish  you  could  see  it  by  moonlight.  This  is 
the  last  night  we  could  —  the  moon  rises  a  little  after 
eight.  Will  you  go  to-night?  I'm  going  back  to- 
morrow. I  don't  know  when  I  may  be  down  again. 
Would  you  rather  go  with  him  ?  " 

"  I  will  never  go  with  him  I "  I  cried.  For  slowly 
I  had  been  getting  "mad"  all  through  at  what 
seemed  the  man's  unparalleled  selfishness,  up  at  the 
mines,  shifting  everything  on  Dick,  leaving  it  to  the 
poor  neighbor  he  scorned  to  take  a  few  flowers  to 
his  wife's  grave,  and  never  coming,  not  once,  to  lift 
his  littie  motherless  Phoebe  in  his  arms.  I  scorned 
him  I 

I  went  to  see  if  Noreen  was  in  the  house.  She  was. 
I  told  her  I  was  going  for  a  walk  and  changed  my 
slippers  to  shoes.   It  was  less  than  two  miles  there 

I20 


AUNT  EDITH 

and  back  Dick  had  said.  I  had  no  wish  to  stay  — 
merely  to  take  one  look  and  learn  the  way.  After,  I 
should  go  when  I  felt  like  it — and  take  Phoebe's 
flowers,  the  wild-flowers  we  were  finding  now  on  our 
rambles. 

But  we  did  stay.  Dick  was  beginning  to  feel  that 
he  knew  me  very  well.  He  could  speak  of  his  trouble, 
now  that  it  was  softened  a  little  by  what  to  youth  is 
"  time."  And  he  too  was  alone  in  his  life  of  suppressed 
emotion.  Things  were  said  in  that  moonlit  place  —  in 
the  presence  of  that  little  mound  so  bare,  with  its  few 
withered  flowers  and  Mrs.  Pettyjohn's  offering  in  a  tin 
tomato-can  filled  with  water  she  had  fetched  herself, 
planted  in  the  dry  soil.  It  all  came  out,  Dick's  con- 
fession, which  was  the  last  irony  I  His  youthful  re- 
sentment against  one  who  had  found  the  road  to 
Paradise  and  gone  in,  and,  as  Dick  thought,  trampled 
the  young  flowers  within  the  gate.  I  clothe  his  half- 
uttered  meaning  in  the  words  of  an  old  fable  that  had 
haunted  me  in  the  same  connection.  But  when  Dick 
took  up  my  case  and  made  it  his  own,  I  did  not  feel 
proud  of  it.  Dick,  I  was  sure,  could  be  even  less  just 
than  I  to  Nanny's  husband.  It  was  Mrs.  Aylesford 
who  knew.  And  one  must  allow  something  for  a  girl 
like  Nanny  knowing  her  own  mind.  .  .  .  But  I  lis- 
tened to  him  and  saw  the  time  was  not  ripe  for  wis- 
dom. 

What  struck  me  was  that  he,  the  despoiler,  must 
have  chosen  this  spot.  He  had  seen  it  was  the  only 
place  —  in  that  horrible  garden  of  monuments  and 

121 


EDITH  BONHAM 

cheap  symbols  and  private  fencing  and  planting — ; 
here  in  this  virgin  plot  where  some  one  had  left  a  few 
exotic  cypresses,  preparing  for  the  tomb  which  was 
never  built,  he  had  brought  his  own  ill-guarded  trea- 
sure, withdrawn  from  the  common  grief.  It  was  very 
suited  to  an  Aylesford.  The  very  trees  were  like  the 
cedars  of  her  old  home.  I  could  have  told  her  mother 
about  this  spot.  Curiously  it  drew  me  towards  the 
man  who  had  seen  it  too.  . .  .  Dick  could  not  know  all 
the  while  I  listened  what  a  sad  young  fool  I  was  think- 
ing him.  But  it  behooved  me  to  be  patient.  Had  n't 
mamma  been  so  I  I  could  not  remember,  but  I  knew 
of  her  patience,  her  tired,  bored  despair  with  some 
of  the  highly  charged  temperaments  that  cried  for  the 
moon  in  her  image.  Papa  in  his  inimitable  way  had 
set  this  ofiE  — seeing  it  and  enjoying  it  with  his  literary 
mind.  He  was  not  actually  flippant  —  it  came  from 
his  appreciation  of  the  humors  of  life,  even  married 
life.  I  don't  suppose  my  mother  was  a  beautiful 
woman,  but  she  wore  the  imperishable  rose  of  beauty 
in  her  breast.  And  no  fairy  had  bestowed  it  on  her  for 
the  subjugation  of  mankind.  It  was  the  flower  of  her 
own  heart. 


XII 

It  was  late  —  very  late  —  past  ten,  when  we  opened 
the  little  road-gate  and  stepped  inside  to  meet  the 
same  odor  of  good  tobacco  that  had  raked  me  all  up 
before.  A  man  came  towards  us  slowly  down  the  walk, 
tossed  his  cigar  into  the  thick  of  the  poplars  and  re- 
turned the  hand  to  his  pocket.  He  took  it  out  again, 
however,  when  he  greeted  me.  It  was  Mr.  Maclay, 
arrived  somehow  at  last  and  expecting  to  go  off  by 
the  early  stage.  So  I  had  lost  my  only  chance  for  the 
talk  I  needed  to  have  with  him,  and  lost  it  in  a  way 
that  must  seem  unnecessary,  to  say  the  least.  I  tho- 
roughly disliked  Dick  at  that  moment.  And  he  looked 
infuriatingly  handsome  as  he  returned  his  chiefs 
casual  recognition,  and  bowed  over  my  hand  with  a 
lingering  good-night  pressure  I  did  not  thank  him 
for.  Bother  Dick  I  Things  were  serious  with  me. 

I  said  to  my  visitor  in  his  own  house  that  I  should 
like  to  tell  Noreen  that  I  was  back ;  as  he  had  been 
kept  waiting  already,  so  long,  a  few  minutes  more 
perhaps  would  not  matter.  He  smiled  without  look- 
ing at  me  and  said  nothing.  No  one,  not  my  own 
father,  could  have  passed  the  matter  off  more  calmly, 
and  there  was  not  a  trace  of  my  father's  latent  irony. 
It  was  more  the  philosophy  of  the  business  man  who 
does  n't  expect  people  as  a  rule  to  keep  their  engage- 
ments or  to  spare  his  time.  I  did  not  care  to  be  taken 

123 


EDITH  BONHAM 

on  that  basis.  I  loved  my  trust ;  and  I  seemed  to  have 
been  playing  with  it  and  showing  an  amazing  insen- 
sibility besides.  Dick  and  I  were  associates  in  the  same 
delicate  service,  and  I  apparently  was  corrupting  him, 
a  boy,  and  I  an  old  girl  of  twenty-seven.  It  need  n't 
and  shouldn't  have  been  —  the  hour  we  sat  there 
talking  unwholesome  nonsense  by  Nanny's  grave. 
And  I  could  n't  have  even  the  common  satisfaction 
of  saying,  "Out  upon  him  1"  for  Dick  too  was  under 
the  pressure  of  loneliness  and  the  subtle  anguish  of 
the  spring. 

I  ran  upstairs  to  dismiss  Noreen.  I  was  ashamed 
before  the  very  servants.  Noreen  had  been  washing 
that  day  and  was  a  tired,  sleepy  girl ;  and  then  I  went 
back  to  face  my  employer.  I  could  see  that  this  first 
extraneous  awkwardness  had  relieved  him  of  some- 
thing deeper  which  he  must  have  dreaded  in  meet- 
ing me  with  my  heart  packed  full  of  memories  —  his 
own  memories.  Did  he  suppose  I  should  chatter  to 
him  about  Nanny  ?  We  began  upon  business  at  once 
hurriedly.  I  suggested  we  return  to  the  ditch-walk. 
He  may  have  thought  it  was  coming  now  —  the 
things  women  say,  the  platitudes  of  sympathy. 

He  looked  at  me  keenly  :  "  You  have  had  a  long 
walk,  haven't  you?"  (He  would  naturally  think  sol 
We  had  kept  him  two  hours  waiting.)  *'  Are  n't  you 
tired?" 

"  We  were  sitting  under  the  trees  part  of  the  time," 
I  answered,  gritting  my  teeth. 

"You  are  very  much  confined —  Do  you  know 
how  to  drive?" 

124 


AUNT  EDITH 

I  said  I  knew  nothing  at  all  about  horses.  "  But 
this  place  does  not  seem  small,  after  a  city  yard.'* 

"But  after  a  cityl" 

**  I  think  we  must  talk  outside,"  I  persisted.  **  I 
want  to  speak  of  the  'domestics.'  " 

He  seemed  relieved ;  he  rose  at  once. 

We  began  with  Mrs.  Lavinus :  that  lady's  month 
was  up  and  I  proposed  we  should  get  rid  of  her,  or 
if  she  could  not  be  replaced,  to  put  her  strictly  under 
the  doctor's  orders,  the  doctor  at  the  Post,  and  be 
empowered  myself  to  see  that  she  carried  them  out. 
"  If  she  is  doing  as  well  as  she  knows  how,  then  she 
does  n't  know  how  I "  He  did  not  ask  for  specific 
charges,  but  I  volunteered  a  few.  I  had  seen  her  test 
the  warmth  of  the  baby's  food  by  putting  its  bottle 
to  her  lips.  I  knew  the  bottles  were  not  sterilized  — 
I  had  been  studying  up  myself  a  little,  I  told  him, 
and  was  no  rude  infidel  —  and  I  had  the  evidence  of 
more  than  one  of  my  senses  that  the  room  she  kept 
the  baby  in  —  far  too  much  of  the  time  —  was  not 
properly  cleaned.  I  "let  him  have  it,"  as  the  saying 
is,  for  I  thought  he  had  shirked  long  enough.  He 
took  a  deep  breath  suddenly  when  I  spoke  of  the 
room.  (I  might  have  spared  him  that :  it  was  almost 
coarse  to  speak  of  Nanny's  room.) 

He  said  he  did  not  suppose  that  Mrs.  Lavinus  was 
very  professional,  but  there  were  none  who  were  — 
she  was  as  good  as  any  of  "  them."  I  said  I  wished 
to  make  Noreen  the  baby's  nurse.  She  was  clean,  to 
begin  with.  I  could  get  my  instructions  from  the 
doctor  and  translate  them  to  her  much  better  than  I 

125 


EDITH  BONHAM 

could  stand  guard  over  Mrs.  Lavinus,  even  if  she 
would  submit  to  it.  The  issue  must  come  soon,  and  I 
asked  for  authority  to  meet  it.  I  saw  him  smiling  to 
himself,  and  saw  no  occasion  for  the  smile.  I  added 
that  I  wanted  to  make  the  baby's  food-formula  my- 
self and  take  care  of  him  at  night.  Hard-working 
servants  were  too  sleepy.  And  now  he  did  not  smile. 

He  said,  "  If  you  have  Phoebe  on  your  mind  all 
day,  you  must  not  be  disturbed  at  night.  You  need 
the  mental  rest."  (We  both  must  have  thought  at  the 
same  moment,  how  much  rest  would  the  children's 
mother  have  had  ?) 

"You  may  trust  me  not  to  injure  my  own  health, 
and  with  the  doctor's  advice  I  think  I  shall  not  injure 
the  baby.  I  hear  him  every  night  —  it  would  be 
easier  to  be  there  and  see  what  he  cries  about.  He 
is  a  very  strong  little  baby,  or  —  "  He  gave  another 
quick  gasp.  I  was  an  infidel  I  I  was  torturing  him 
quietly  in  every  word. 

He  did  not  shirk  now  nor  leave  things  at  loose 
ends.  He  gave  me  a  free  hand,  as  he  had  meant  to, 
he  said,  from  the  first.  "If  I  hadn't,  your  letters 
would  have  shown  me  that  I  could.  I  want  to  thank 
you  for  them.  .  .  .  And  now,  about  yourself  ?  Am  I 
forcing  all  this  on  you  ?  Do  you  want  to  go  any- 
where else  from  here  ?  " 

"  Not  at  present,"  I  said.  Pledges  between  us 
were  not  required,  nor  that  I  should  confess  that  I 
I  had  not  anywhere  else  to  go  if  I  would  escape  de- 
pendence. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  promise  you  any  prospect  of 
126 


AUNT  EDITH 

relief,  for  some  time  at  least.  Mrs.  Aylesford's  house 
would  be  the  natural  place  for  the  children,  but  she 
is — did  Grant  tell  you  ?  —  in  a  very  critical  condition, 
mentally,  it  is  feared.'^ 

Mr.  Maclay  looked  at  you  briefly  but  penetratingly 
when  he  talked,  and  then  ofi  as  if  considering  things  in 
general.  I  have  noticed  this  in  men  who  give  orders ; 
— but  those  short  glances  may  go  deep.  I  had  one 
more  request,  which  wasn't  mine,  but  Mrs.  Petty- 
john's. When  I  brought  it  up  again  he  looked  at  me 
in  that  cool,  sudden  way.  I  guessed  he  was  surprised 
that  I  should  return  to  a  matter  he  had  once  decided, 
and  wondered  at  my  reason.  I  scarcely  cared  to  have 
him  think  it  a  personal  espousal  of  Mrs.  Pettyjohn's 
affairs,  but  I  was  willing  to  bear  the  odium  for  the 
sake  of  those  flowers.  One  might  smile  at  the  unas- 
suming tomato-can,  poor  soul  I  But  the  long  walks 
in  the  heat  she  had  not  advertised,  with  all  her 
love  of  effect.  He  would  never  know  of  them!  I 
took  it  as  my  own  debt,  and  I  determined  it  should 
be  paid. 

I  spoke  once  more  of  the  loan  of  the  dining-room, 
intimating  that  it  seemed  a  little  thing  for  one  that 
meant  so  much  to  her. 

*'  It  is  not  a  little  thing,"  he  answered.  "  She  should 
n't  have  asked  it.  She  knows  if  her  uncle  were  living 
he  would  not  marry  them  nor  permit  them  to  be  mar- 
ried on  this  ground.  You  know  what  the  Catholics 
think  of  divorce!  It's  not  certain  she  can  be  mar- 
ried, legally, — I  should  doubt  if  she  has  her  papers 
all  straight.  That  would  be  no  business  of  ours  if  we 

127 


EDITH  BONHAM 

did  not  hold  a  candle  to  it —  put  a  roof  over  its  head. 
...  I  see  you  have  some  scruple  in  this  ?  Is  it  any- 
thing- more  than  kindness?" 

I  said  that  she  had  been  very  kind — to  little  Phoebe. 
He  knew  of  that,  and  was  **  very  sorry."  It  should  n't 
have  been  I  He  was  thankful  I  was  there  and  such  a 
thing  could  not  happen  again. 

But  it  had  happened,  I  persisted.  **  She  did  her  best 
— are  we  to  do  nothing  in  kind  ?  " 

And  then  we  both  paused  and  he  seemed  to  gather 
breath  in  that  racking  way  whenever  he  approached 
the  name  he  had  not  spoken  once  in  my  hearing. 

*'  Phoebe's  mother  felt  as  you  do — about  our  neigh- 
bor. She  sent  her  fruit  and  vegetables  —  as  you  will, 
when  we  can  spare  them  from  the  garden.  But  she 
found  it  best  to  have  no  running  back  and  forth.  It 
wasn't  easy — but  it  was  necessary.  As  I  came  up 
the  street  I  saw  some  litde  girls  poking  and  slapping 
something  that  lay  out  next  the  sidewalk,  fanning  it 
with  their  skirts  and  breathing  the  dust.  It  was  a  mat- 
tress that  some  doctor  must  have  ordered  destroyed. 
They  don't  burn  old  mattresses  here  without  special 
orders.  We  may  expect  a  crop  of  scarlet  fever  or  small- 
pox in  the  neighborhood  soon.  Sporting  chances  on 
contagion  are  the  rule,  of  course.  A  doctor  who  re- 
ports a  case  and  quarantines  the  family  is  boycotted 
among  the  poorer  class.  Mrs.  Pettyjohn  is  very  kind, 
as  you  say.  She  is  one  who  *  never  takes  anything' 
and  thinks  she  could  n't  spread  anything.  So  I  'm 
compelled  to  warn  you  that  she  must  not  come  into 
our  yard,  and  Phcebe  must  not  go  outside  these  fences 

138 


AUNT  EDITH 

—  not  for  five  minutes  alone.  That,  of  course,  I  need 
not  tell  you." 

I  said  I  should  think  it  would  kill  the  mothers  who 
had  a  trained  sense  of  responsibility  —  and  sickened 
over  the  speech  the  instant  after.  He  said  nothing. 
His  silences  were  the  most  effective  part  of  his  con- 
versation. I  was  beginning  to  see  that  Nanny  had 
married,  if  not  a  protector  of  the  poor,  something 
of  a  protector  of  his  own.  She  had  come  of  a  self- 
centered  family  —  I  knew  she  could  not  have  quar- 
reled with  him  there. 

He  went  away  soon  down  the  empty  street;  it 
seemed  forlorn  to  see  him  go  —  out  of  his  own  house, 
the  house  of  his  joy  and  his  sorrow.  There  was  a  per- 
fectly good  reason  for  it — unless  he  had  slept  in  the 
room  downstairs,  the  room  with  the  bay-window. 


XIII 

NOREEN'S  manner  next  morning  showed  what  she 
thought  of  my  conduct,  —  and  who  was  to  blame 
her?  Mrs.  O'Shea  had  very  good  ideas  and  incul- 
cated them  upon  the  daughters  of  her  care  with  the 
metaphorical  rod  of  iron.  They  were  not  allowed  to 
roam  the  streets  at  night  with  young  men  they  had  n't 
known  but  a  month-like  I  Mrs.  Lavinus,  on  the  con- 
trary, claimed  a  sort  of  good-fellowship  in  the  un- 
lucky exposure. 

"  Some  bosses  think  it 's  smart  to  drop  down  on  you 
when  you  least  expect  'em.  I  come  pretty  near  being 
caught  out,  too,  but  I  didn't  have  no  young  man 
along."  She  gave  me  a  glance  that  was  anything 
but  severe.  **  I  just  stepped  over  to  tell  Mrs.  O'Shea 
she  needn't  put  starch  in  the  baby's  ni' gowns  after 
this:  I  guess  she  took  'em  for  dresses, — they  look 
good  enough,  —  but  I  ain't  strong  on  starch  in  baby- 
things  nohow :  lace  scratchin'  their  little  necks.  I 
thought  it  might  make  her  mad  if  I  sent  her  word 
by  Noreen.  She  did  n't  ask  me  to  set  down,  though, 
and  just  as  well  —  I  hadn't  more'n  got  to  the  gate 
*fore  I  heard  Hing  gabbling  away  to  somebody — 
my,  but  he  was  reelin'  it  of! !  I  guess  he 's  been 
pretty  near  ready  to  bust  this  long  while.  Chinamen 
don't  like  women-folks  round  in  their  kitchens, 
baby  or  no  baby.   And  there  sure  enough  it  was  Mr. 

130 


AUNT  EDITH 

Maclay  I  I  whipped  into  the  house  before  he  saw  me. 
But  it  did  n't  make  no  difference.  He  never  stepped 
inside  the  baby's  room,  nor  even  looked  in.  'T  was 
as  much  as  ever  he  'd  notice  the  baby  when  I  brought 
him  out  sound  asleep  to  show  him,  and  his  little 
mouth  workin'  for  his  dinner.  He  asked  right  away 
where  you  was.  I  told  him  —  not  to  say  where,  be- 
cause I  did  n't  know  (and  don't  this  minute),  but  I 
told  him  who  you  went  with.  He  took  two  strides 
up  the  stairs  and  sent  Noreen  down  and  there  he  set 
in  your  room  maybe  half  an  hour  in  the  dark  —  or 
perhaps  it  was  moonlight  —  lookin'  at  Phcebe,  I  sup- 
pose. Anybody  could  pity  the  man  if  he  'd  let  you, 
but  you  can't  say  nothing  to  them  kind.  I  told  him, 
'You  needn't  to  be  afraid  to  go  in  there,'  I  said. 
'Everything  has  been  put  away.  You  won't  see 
nothin'  to  distress  you.'  He  looked  a  past  me  as  if 
I  was  n't  there.  *  Where 's  Miss  Bonham  ? '  he  says. 
'Where's  Miss  Bonham?'  That's  all  there  was  to 
my  part!  How'd  you  come  off? — he  seem  much 
put  out  with  you  for  keepin'  him  waitin'  ?  He  waited 
a  good  long  while  !  *  My  Land  I '  I  says  to  Noreen, 
'  what  do  you  suppose  them  two  can  find  to  amuse 
themselves  walkin'  the  streets  in  this  town  after  New 
York  where  they  come  from?  —  eight  o'clock  to  ha' 
past  ten  1 '  I  should  have  thought  you  'd  'a'  been 
dead  on  the  floor.  And  then  to  walk  an'  talk  with 
him  I  Don't  you  never  set  down  inside  with  your 
company?  It  looks  funny  strollin'  about  outside  — 
men-folks  may  like  it,  but  I  don't  believe  your  ladies 
would,  if  any  of  'em  ever  come  to  call." 

131 


EDITH  BONHAM 

That  evening's  mail  brought  a  city  letter  from  Mr. 
Maclay  written  on  the  paper  of  his  hotel.  It  finished 
suddenly  something  he  probably  had  had  in  mind, 
but  would  have  postponed  had  he  not  taken  a  second 
walk  later  than  our  words  together. 

"  I  went  up  to  the  cemetery  last  night,  after  I  left 
you.  Now  I  know  where  you  had  been  and  where 
you  sat  'under  the  trees.'  Your  flowers  from  her 
garden  were  still  fresh.  I  have  bought  the  hill  with 
the  trees.  No  one  will  touch  the  place  now.  Could 
you,  without  too  much  labor,  with  all  that  you  have 
to  do,  make  me  a  drawing  for  a  stone  to  place  there, 
just  as  you  saw  it  last  night?  I  can  see  something  in 
my  own  mind,  but  I  could  not  work  it  out.  Let  it  be 
your  own  design,  or,  if  you  prefer,  something  adapted 
from  your  studies  together,  something  you  know 
she  would  have  liked.  The  inscription  should  in- 
clude her  parents'  names  and  her  birthplace.  I  shall 
be  back  in  about  three  weeks.  If  you  are  not  ready 
to  do  this,  wait.  But  when  you  are  ready,  will  you 
try  ?  Nothing  that  any  one  here  could  do,  would  be 
tolerable." 

My  heart  sprang  to  the  task.  Now  I  felt  that  he 
knew  what  had  been  the  bond ;  why  I  had  come, 
and  why  I  had  stayed,  unwelcome  to  those  around 
me,  distrusted  and  lonely  and  alone.  .  .  . 

There  were  in  the  house  four  volumes  of  "  L' Art 
pour  tons,  industriel  et  decoratif."  Papa  had  given 
them  to  Nanny.  For  of  course  I  had  brought  her 
home,  and  it  had  been,  as  I  knew  it  would  be,  a 
great  "  mash  "  between  them,  with  the  unfair  advan- 

132 


AUNT  EDITH 

tage  on  papa's  side.  He,  inventing  preposterous 
compliments  to  give  her  practice  in  the  art  of  receiv- 
ing them,  he  said,  which  had  not  been  a  part  of  her 
previous  education.  She,  blushing  as  expected,  but 
keeping  her  mind  quite  level,  above  her  shy,  fas- 
cinated eyes,  to  the  literary  side  of  his  Elizabethan 
persiflage.  If  she  did  not  know  how  to  take  a  com- 
pliment, she  could  recognize  a  charming  phrase,  even 
if  aimed  with  monstrous  hyperbole  at  herself.  He 
called  her  "  Diaphenia,  like  the  daflfydowndilly  "  — 
Heaven  knows  what  he  did  not  call  her  I  —  they  were 
an  amusing  pair.  He  was  really  vexed  by  her  mar- 
riage to  "that  fellow  out  West";  and  he  sent  her 
these  books  and  others  from  time  to  time,  to  give  her 
**  a  few  standards  "  in  a  world  quite  bare  to  his  imagi- 
nation. If  she  wanted  a  fan  or  a  footstool  or  a  mantel- 
piece or  a  door-knocker,  here  she  could  choose  her 
sitcle  and  her  design,  when  great  artists  were  also 
artisans.  Her  fan  (fancy  Nanny  with  a  fan  at  the 
Doldrums !)  could  be  an  idyl  by  Gessner,  her  foot- 
stool copied  from  Durer,  such  a  stool  as  one  of  his 
grim  Virgins  might  rest  her  mediaeval  feet  upon.  .  . . 
And  to  this  use  his  gift  had  come  I 

I  went  over  the  books  that  evening  and  found  a 
suggestion  of  what  I  sought  —  in  Vico's  "  Book  of  the 
Roman  Empresses,"  1557  (there  are  later  editions)  — 
the  page  fronting  the  life  of  the  "lovely  Julia,"  she 
who  died,  and  her  unborn  babe,  at  the  sight  of  Pom- 
pey's  blood-stained  garments  —  one  of  the  casual- 
ties of  her  time.  Stripped  of  its  figures  dkcoratives^ 
stripped  of  emblems  of  the  Renaissance  and  every- 

133 


EDITH  BONHAM 

thing-,  according  to  the  taste  of  that  time,  belonging- 
to  the  family  pride  of  the  Roman  lady,  keeping  only 
the  lines  of  the  sculptured  screen  at  the  back  and  the 
beautiful  Classic-Renaissance  lettering  (this  repre- 
sentation was  not  the  actual  tomb  of  Julia,  merely  a 
title-page  of  Vico's  designer) — there  was  my  me- 
morial stone.  Place  it  on  the  hill  among  her  dream- 
ing trees  with  the  distant,  restful  mountain-line ;  let 
the  evenings  and  mornings  and  nights  and  days  be 
her  visitors  —  whom  she  shared  equally  with  those 
below  in  the  new-digged  spots,  or  in  the  sun-smitten 
graves  of  strangers,  or  the  neglected  plots  of  early 
families  whose  friends  had  moved  away ;  —  it  seemed 
to  me  enough.  I  worked  at  it,  when  I  felt  fresh  for 
the  task,  a  good  deal  of  the  time  while  he  was  away. 
In  looking  over  these  books  I  had  come  upon 
pencil-plans  —  of  Nanny's,  I  was  sure.  They  were  all 
labeled,  "The  house  at  Silver  City."  Sketches  of  in- 
terior details,  book-shelves,  paneling,  newel-posts, 
mantels :  —  Nanny  could  not  have  needed  to  label  her 
own  drawings  of  a  house  that  had  no  rival.  She  must 
have  printed  those  words  for  pure  swagger,  the  joy 
of  seeing  them  on  paper :  **  The  house  at  Silver  City." 
So  they  had  planned  to  build  in  the  mountain-camp, 
taking  the  risks  up  there  after  those  they  knew  in  the 
valley  town  ?  A  place  she  would  have  loved,  and  that 
I  would  have  loved.  This  was  the  good  time  coming 
for  which  she  needed  to  be  *'a  tower  of  strength." 
Perhaps  this  house  already  was  begun  and  Douglas 
Maclay,  in  his  work  up  there,  had  its  frustrate  walls 
before  his  eyes  to  mock  him. 


XIV 

Mrs.  Pettyjohn  did  not  take  the  refusal  of  her  pe- 
tition as  gracefully  as  nature  had  taught  her  to  do 
some  other  things.  Nature  flamed  up  in  her  heart, 
and  she  aimed  her  resentment  at  me.  She  had  thought 
she  had  a  ** friend  at  court,"  she  said:  Mr.  Maclay 
could  not  apprehend  what  there  was  no  one  to  take 
the  trouble  to  present  to  his  mind — a  busy  man.  But 
so  be  it  1  life  was  like  that :  —  you  have  a  friend  — 
she  is  snatched  away ;  you  think  you  have  found  an- 
other whom  you  could  cherish  —  she  does  not  read 
you,  she  does  not  grasp  what  you  say,  though  you 
pour  out  your  heart  to  her  —  or,  she  is  indifferent  1 
'Twas  all  the  same  —  a  hundred  years  from  now. 
She  could  walk  into  a  law-office  out  of  the  street  and 
be  married  in  a  hat  I  The  poor  little  divorcke  had  pic- 
tured herself  in  a  wedding-veil,  perchance  the  one  she 
wore  for  Petitjean  —  and  all  the  setting  of  a  first  ap- 
pearance as  a  bride  as  good  as  new.  And  we  had 
stripped  her  romance  down  to  street-attire,  or  the 
alternative  of  the  chicken-coop.  She  might  even  have 
thought  to  avoid  the  expense  of  a  walking-costume 
and  hat  suited  to  her  ideas  of  a  justice  of  the  peace 
wedding.  Her  mind  was  mixed  of  thrift  and  dreams 
of  her  second  blooming,  and  there  were  many  long 
hours  of  the  long  spring  days  in  which  to  work  up 
her  feelings. 

135 


EDITH  BONHAM 

On  taking  leave  I  spoke  of  her  flourishing  plants 
ranged  on  a  window-shelf  outside.  I  had  come  by  the 
road  around  the  corner  of  the  lot,  and  they  made  a 
fine  show  to  the  passer.  She  sighed  —  **  They  take 
plenty  of  water.  I  have  only  these  hands  to  fetch  it, 
but  even  the  poor  must  have  a  few  little  pleasures." 
I  spoke  also  of  a  board  that  was  loose  in  the  back 
fence  that  divided  our  premises  (strictly  speaking  that 
Hing  had  said  was  loose)  and  promised  it  should  be 
nailed  up.  I  feared  it  might  irritate  her,  the  sound  of 
nailing  boards  from  our  side,  against  her,  as  it  were. 
It  did  —  even  the  apology. 

"  Ah,  for  the  love  of  God  I  If  you  could  leave  me 
that  one  little  convenience!  It  is  the  last — the  very 
last  thing  I  shall  ask  of  that  rich  man.  Name  of 
Heaven  I  It  is  only  to  save  me  going  the  whole  way 
round  with  my  pails  of  water.  It  was  in  the  deed  in 
black  and  white  that  never,  never  shall  that  well  be 
shut  to  me.  Before  I  sign  it  the  lawyer  he  read  it  to 
me :  nobody  has  the  right  to  do  that  —  not  if  he  own 
the  whole  Territory.  If  it  is  by  the  gate  I  come  or  by 
the  fence — what  is  that  to  him?  He  never  see  me! 
It  will  not  disgrace  his  family  if  I  crawl  through  a 
fence  and  tear  the  clothes  off  my  back  to  save  my  feet 
the  hot  road  and  me  walking  with  my  pails  like  a 
scrub-woman  and  meeting  ladies  that  have  called 
upon  me  with  their  cards  in  their  hands  when  I  was 
my  uncle's  niece.  Father  Lanfrey.  I  do  not  complain. 
Such  is  my  lot.  But  I  do  not  think  it  is  too  much 
to  ask  of  that  great  man  with  his  mines  that  never 
come  near  my  place,  and  never  enter  the  door  I  put 

136 


AUNT  EDITH 

between  his  child  and  the  sight  of  them  carrying  her 
mother  out  of  the  house  he  deserted,  Hke  a  man  that 
was  ashamed  of  death.  And  take  her  in  my  lap  and 
tell  her  of  the  Mother  of  God,  that  she  forget  a  few 
minutes  what  it  means  to  lose  a  mother  like  she  had. 
I  would  do  it  again  a  thousand  times,  but  not  for  him, 
my  God!" 

And  I  was  to  brutalize  matters  still  more  (while  of 
course  granting  the  loose  board)  by  mentioning  quite 
pointedly  that  it  should  be  replaced  each  time  she  came 
through,  and  if  we  used  it  we  would  do  the  same ! 
The  implication  was  enough  —  she  followed  me  to  the 
gate  haughtily,  and  her  lips  quivered  with  words  of 
scant  civility,  as  she  bowed  without  giving  me  her 
hand. 

Hing  had  complained  that  the  board  never  was  re- 
placed. He  himself  had  nailed  it  up  more  than  once 
and  always  found  it  open  again,  and  now  that  the 
garden  was  sprouting,  Mrs.  Pettyjohn's  fowls  were  a 
serious  annoyance.  When  I  returned  from  my  call  I 
investigated  and  found  it  as  Hing  had  said ;  so  my 
charge  was  not  without  foundation,  even  if  our  neigh- 
bor did  resent  it :  she  probably  knew  herself  that  the 
board  was  open  at  the  time. 

Little  troubles  never  come  single.  I  had  scarcely 
entered  the  wedge  that  was  to  part  us  from  Mrs.  La- 
vinus  (the  doctor's  visit,  namely,  and  its  results)  when 
I  found  myself  practically  unable  to  let  her  go.  Noreen 
had  been  told  of  the  promotion  that  awaited  her  when 
Mrs.  Lavinus's  time  was  up  —  to  my  surprise  she  in- 
formed liie  that  she  intended  to  leave,  herself,  at  the 

137 


EDITH  BONHAM 

end  of  the  week.  I  knew  by  her  manner  that  she  must 
have  been  tampered  with.  She  could  not  meet  my 
eyes  and  her  reasons  were  absurd.  They  were,  of 
course,  whatever  excuse  she  chose  to  give  me. 

I  advertised  for  a  nursemaid  and  after  a  blank  of 
several  days,  with  not  a  single  applicant,  came  a 
number  of  remarkably  queer  ones.  I  seemed  to  have 
tapped  the  wrong  vein  as  to  service  in  the  town.  Per- 
sons I  had  never  dreamed  of  unearthing  came  and 
soberly  or  shiftingly  asked  for  the  place  of  nurse  to 
Nanny's  baby.  One  brought  a  soiled  check-apron 
protruding  from  brown  paper  and  was  ready  to  enter 
on  her  duties  at  once.  Another  was  addicted  to  **  fits  " 
and  said  there  was  no  warning  as  to  when  they  were 
due.  Others  appeared  to  have  come  for  the  walk  or 
to  see  the  inside  of  our  premises.  And  there  were 
others,  a  few,  with  whom  I  did  not  parley  nor  dis- 
semble. In  short,  there  was  no  help  in  sight  for  us 
save  the  redoubtable  woman  my  wits  were  matched 
against.  She  looked  on,  I  may  say,  with  her  tongue 
in  her  cheek. 

The  Post  surgeon  whom  I  consulted  as  a  friend  in 
my  extremity,  advised  me  not  to  fly  to  ills  I  knew  not 
of.  He  said  that  I  might  leave  him  to  manage  Mrs. 
Lavinus.  I  asked  him  if  he  ever  had  managed  her. 
My  manner,  I  trust,  did  something  to  show  that  the 
impertinence  proceeded  from  my  own  despair. 

"You  can't  watch  her  all  the  time,"  he  said.  "She 
needs  to  be  bullied.  That's  the  only  discipline  she  is 
used  to.  It 's  a  wonderful  baby  or  it  would  be  a  sick 
baby  now.  He  '11  respond  to  the  schedule  like  clock- 

138 


AUNT  EDITH 

work  —  you'll  see.  And  she'll  respond  —  to  a  few 
words  I  shall  say  to  her.  I  have  a  stick  to  hold  over 
Mrs.  Lavinus." 

The  doctor,  while  he  did  not  hold  her  (being  who 
she  was)  morally  responsible,  might  have  held  her 
technically  so,  I  believed,  for  what  had  happened  to 
his  maternity  patient  in  her  care.  If  she  could  not 
be  punished  legally,  her  reputation  could  be  injured. 
The  surgeon  at  the  Post  stood  above  any  suspicion 
of  personal  motives.  It  was  a  dreadful  thought,  but 
it  came  to  me  as  the  only  explanation  of  the  "  stick." 
I  did  not  believe  he  felt  vindictive ;  he  knew  her  kind 
too  well.  She  would  have  had  about  as  much  respect 
for  some  of  his  most  critical  orders  as  if  he  had  told 
her  to  go  outside  and  stamp  three  times  on  the  ground 
before  giving  the  patient  a  drink  of  water.  I  knew  he 
must  have  left  as  little  to  her  as  possible,  but  she  was 
in  charge :  he  had  to  work  with  her  as  with  other  in- 
struments of  fate  that  must  have  met  him  at  every 
turn  in  his  practice  outside  the  Reservation, 
f  He  was  a  small  man  with  a  big-topped  head  and 
scornful  nostrils,  lean  and  dark  from  service  on  the 
Mexican  border.  I  bowed  to  him  in  every  particular 
and  I  enjoyed  his  slashing  remarks.  He  was  faithful 
but  irascible.  To  Mrs.  Lavinus  his  words  were  few ; 
they  illustrated  the  truth,  which  I  have  never  disputed 
in  her  person,  of  the  rude  old  saying:  — 

"A  woman,  a  dog,  and  a  hickory-tree, 
The  more  you  thrash  them,  the  better  they  be." 

It  was  a  warm  week,  the  first  week  in  May.  Phoebe 

was  in  short  socks  and  Dutch-necked  dresses,  and  I 

139 


EDITH  BONHAM 

had  fastened  around  her  throat,  which  was  tanned  by 
the  spring  sun  a  soft  pale  brown,  a  chain  of  white 
coral  beads,  a  little  too  long  for  her.  It  was  one  of 
my  own  trinkets  of  the  days  when  it  was  part  of  my 
recognized  business  to  deck  myself  for  papa's  eyes 
that  took  note  of  everything  I  put  on  and  everything  I 
wore  with  it.  He  had  taken  a  book  I  was  reading  out  of 
my  hands  because  it  had  a  yellow  cover  and  the  dress 
I  had  on  was  blue,  not  an  artist's  blue.  "Primary 
colors  I "  was  his  comment.  The  dress  was  one  Aunt 
Essie  had  given  me  which  I  needed ;  he  swore  it 
ruined  his  eye  whenever  I  put  it  on. 

Between  our  back  lawn  and  the  vegetable  garden, 
and  in  one  spot  extending  to  the  fence,  there  was  a  little 
orchard  of  perhaps  twenty  or  thirty  trees  of  mixed 
fruits.  The  grass  had  been  allowed  to  grow  where  it 
would,  or  the  ground  ran  to  weeds  beneath  the  trees, 
but  peach-blossoms  were  scattering  their  petals  im- 
partially upon  weeds  and  grass.  Apple-blossoms  were 
at  their  best,  smothering  the  low  boughs  with  clusters 
of  beatific  bloom ;  we  were  embowered,  cut  off  from 
all  but  glimpses  of  the  bamboo  hedge  massed  in  flick- 
ering green  against  the  dividing-fence  it  was  planted 
there  to  hide.  In  one  spot  it  had  been  much  trampled, 
and  behind  this  was  the  board  in  dispute.  I  had  not 
visited  it  often,  but  Hing  reported  that  it  was  always 
in  place  ;  he  complained  no  more  of  Mrs.  Pettyjohn's 
chickens  in  his  lettuce-bed,  and  so  I  regarded  the  in- 
cident (and  the  board)  as  closed. 

That  day  under  the  apple-trees,  I  remember,  I  had 
been  reading  "The  Grandissimes,"  a  book  that  must 

140 


AUNT  EDITH 

have  been  written  with  tears  and  laughter.  One  can't 
help  wondering  why  the  Creole  families  in  New  Or- 
leans were  not  enchanted  with  their  ancestors  in  its 
pages?  It  seems  they  were  not !  We  like,  I  suppose, 
to  have  our  blood-relations  taken  more  seriously  them- 
selves and  some  of  their  institutions  not  so  seriously. 
But  how  the  author  adored  them  personally,  who 
can  help  but  see  —  and  how  adorable  he  has  made 
them  I  I  had  got  to  the  ''Fete  de  Grandp^re,"  intri- 
cate, delicious  chapter,  marvelously  mixed,  with  cryptic 
allusions  no  reader  is  expected  to  more  than  half  un- 
derstand ;  but  one  saw  the  scene  —  the  great  "  mother- 
mansion'*  of  the  Grandissimes,  its  belvedered  roof 
and  immense,  encircling  verandas  "  where  twenty 
Creole  girls  could  walk  abreast."  As  I  read  I  saw  the 
** laughing  squadron"  wheel  and  disappear  and  re- 
appear at  an  end  of  the  veranda  and  challenge  the 
group  of  young  male  cousins  smoking  on  the  steps. 
...  I  was  far  away  and  spell-bound,  when  the  con- 
sciousness of  a  rather  long  silence  where  had  been  a 
succession  of  happy  sounds  caused  me  to  look  up  and 
ask  myself,  "  Where  is  Phoebe  ?  "  She  had  been  skip- 
ping about  under  the  transparencies  of  bloom  that 
softened  but  did  not  shade  the  sun  upon  her  upraised 
face  and  changing  attitudes.  How  could  I  have  buried 
my  head  in  a  book  instead  of  gazing  at  her?  What 
was  there  in  Louisiana  gardens  lovelier  than  that  pic- 
ture which  suddenly  I  missed.  She  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen. 

I  hunted  high  and  low.  My  next  thought,  after 
rushing  all  over  the  place  and  asking  every  one  I 

141 


EDITH  BONHAM 

met,  was  the  fence.  I  went  to  the  trampled  spot  — 
the  board  had  been  pushed  aside  by  some  hand 
stronger  than  a  child's  and  left.  I  squeezed  through 
into  Mrs.  Pettyjohn's  back  premises,  bare  and  broom- 
swept  and  smelling  of  fowls.  A  poor  place,  neat  with 
that  pathetic  surface  cleanness  of  her  kind  that  pro- 
tests so  much,  but  by  the  odors  cannot  go  very  deep. 
Phoebe  was  there,  face  to  face  with  a  big  girl  of  nine 
or  ten  who  had  taken  off  the  coral  chain  and  put  it 
around  her  own  neck  and  was  lipping  it  to  feel  its 
smoothness.  Seeing  me,  she  hastily  undid  the  neck- 
lace and  endeavored  to  restore  it,  but  having  trouble 
with  the  clasp,  fumbling  under  Phoebe's  long  hair, 
she  let  it  fall  and  ran  into  the  house  where  I  could 
hear  women's  voices  in  a  gale  of  conversation. 

It  was  a  wretched  incident.  I  washed  Phoebe's 
neck  and  the  chain  in  alcohol  and  tried  to  con- 
trol my  imagination.  But  Mrs.  Lavinus,  when  we 
sat  together  at  tea  that  evening,  gave  me  the  final 
stroke ! 

She  was  not  nearly  so  unpleasant  to  sit  beside, 
since  the  doctor  had  lambasted  her.  She  took  a  cer- 
tain pride  in  her  enforced  regeneration ;  her  daily 
bath  and  clean  apron  and  twice-a-week  clean  dress 
set  her  up  in  her  own  regard.  Being  now  ranged 
with  the  sheep,  she  looked  with  corresponding  sus- 
picion upon  her  former  goatish  companions. 

"  I  see  that  Briggs  girl  going  in  with  her  mother 
to  Mrs.  Pettyjohn's  this  afternoon.  I  'd  like  to  hear 
what  Doc  Davenport  would  say  to  that !  She  was 
took  out  of  school  for  scarlet  fever  't  wa.'n't  three 

142 


AUNT  EDITH 

weeks  ago  and  I  know  it.  If  there 's  anything  in  this 
six- weeks'  quarantine  idee,  whether  it 's  a  Hght  case 
or  a  hard  one,  some  one  's  in  for  a  dose  of  it,  the  way 
that  young  one  's  let  to  run.  Don't  you  say  nothin' 
—  I  would  n't  want  it  to  come  from  me.  But  I  seen 
her  all  right." 

I  read  no  more  **Grandissimes."  The  sight  of  that 
old  green  cloth  volume  to  this  day  gives  me  waves 
of  dim  sickness  of  the  soul.  ...  All  we  knew  was 
when  to  expect  the  blow  if  it  came.  The  plan  of  the 
house  made  it  difficult  to  cut  ourselves  off  from  the 
baby.  It  might  have  been  managed,  but  who,  under 
these  circumstances,  could  undertake  to  manage 
Mrs.  Lavinus.  The  doctor  himself  was  afraid  of  her. 
That  old  war-horse,  snufBng  the  batde,  might  break 
her  bonds  and  go  careering  into  the  midst  of  our 
quarantine.  I  became  suddenly  hysterical  as  we 
talked  of  her.  The  doctor  looked  at  me  severely ;  he 
knew  that  if  he  sympathized,  I  should  have  to  leave 
the  room.  "  You  must  get  yourself  in  perfect  con- 
dition, you  understand :  if  she 's  taken,  you  '11  have  to 
go  out  there." 

I  asked  where? 

**To  the  place  on  the  mesa,"  he  said. 

We  could  not  wait  for  Mr.  Maclay's  return  before 
deciding  what  to  do.  His  consent  to  what  we  decided 
on  must  be  taken  for  granted.  The  doctor  said  "we," 
meaning  himself. 

"  There  is  one  thing  that  is  n't  going  to  be  taken 
for  granted  :  that 's  my  nursing  Phoebe,"  I  said.  "  If 
her  father  is  willing  to  trust  me  —  after  what  has 

143 


EDITH  BONHAM 

happened,  then  your  orders  stand,  in  my  case  —  not 
otherwise  I " 

"You  exaggerate,  you  know,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  But  that 's  natural.  Keep  yourself  in  condition  all 
the  same.  Careful  of  your  diet,  and  very  careful  of 
hers.  And  don't  worry." 

He  rode  out  to  the  Doldrums  and  inspected  the 
premises,  talked  over  Mrs.  Aden,  the  care-taker's 
wife,  into  cooperating  with  her  cooking,  and  gave 
orders  how  our  scarlet-fever  camp  was  to  be  organ- 
ized when  the  blow  struck  (if  it  did),  with  help  from 
the  Adens  that  should  not  endanger  their  own  chil- 
dren. This  was  a  good  deal  to  do,  but  all  had  been 
arranged  when,  in  the  very  nick,  Phoebe's  father 
came  home.  I  saw  him  tested  then  —  through  and 
through,  I  should  call  it. 

I  don't  think  he  made  a  single  comment  in  words 
upon  my  bitter  confession.  We  stood  by  Phoebe's 
bed  (and  the  blow  had  struck).  Her  face  was  darkly 
flushed  and  the  delicate  little  throat  I  had  adorned 
so  fondly  showed  the  ugly  marks  of  the  Fear  that 
had  crept  in  under  my  slack  guard.  His  answer  was 
to  give  me  the  higher,  the  supreme  trust  —  the  fight 
out  there  alone  for  the  life  of  his  child.  Yes  ;  he  made 
one  other  sign.  He  dropped  the  "  Miss  Bonham  "  and 
called  me  **  Edith  "  as  if  he  had  done  so  all  his  life. 
That  somehow  sealed  the  terms  on  which  we  entered 
into  this  new  and  fearful  test  of  amateur  efficiency.  I 
told  him,  of  course,  that  I  had  never  nursed  anything 
more  serious  than  the  common  cold  of  New  York 
winters  and  the  common  sick-headache  in  my  life. 


PART   III 

THE  WATCH   ON  THE  MESA 


XV 

The  water  of  the  Boise  River  was  being  fought  for 
in  those  days  by  irrigation  companies  little  and  big. 
Some  were  dying,  some  were  dead,  some  were  sleep- 
ing like  the  Eastern  canal  company  Nanny  had  told 
me  of,  and  some  were  crawling  along  as  usual  —  these 
were  the  pioneer  ditches  of  local  ownership  that  could 
use  but  little  water  here  below,  but  wanted  that  little 
very  much  to  themselves.  Few  of  the  old  settlers  be- 
lieved in  the  engineering  talk  of  reservoirs  in  the  hills 
to  store  the  river's  fitful  surplus  —  not  believing  it, 
they  knew  there  was  n't  enough  water  to  go  'round, 
at  the  rate  the  big  corporations  were  laying  out  their 
long-line  canals  with  thousands  of  acres  under  them. 
And  they  were  not  friendly  to  the  Easterners  in  a 
business  way,  though  good-natured  enough  as  man 
to  man.  Maclay  was  a  mining-man  and  one  of  the 
sufferers  by  the  break-down  of  the  **  Big  Ditch,"  as 
it  was  called.  He  was  if  anything  more  popular  per- 
sonally for  his  losses,  though  losses  on  such  a  scale 
give  a  man  away  pretty  badly  as  to  his  judgment. 
The  misfortunes  of  our  neighbors  are  nothing  against 
them,  if  they  don't  explain  too  much.  Maclay  did 
not  explain. 

Douglas,  as  I  was  trying  now  to  call  him,  sat  in 
front  with  Aden ;  we  were  driving  out  to  the  mesa, 

147 


EDITH  BONHAM 

crossing  the  wooden  bridge  from  town  to  the  desert 
valley  beyond  the  strip  of  ranch-land  under  the  old 
ditch  east  of  the  river.  It  was  a  heavenly  morn- 
ing, the  river  in  flood  booming  along  under  the 
bridge.  All  the  little  fields  we  were  leaving  behind 
us  were  a  mist  of  green  and  patched  with  crops  just 
springing.  The  doctor  had  said  that  with  so  much 
fever  as  Phoebe  had  she  could  not  take  cold,  but  we 
had  the  window  up  between  us,  the  pariahs  on  the 
back  seat,  and  those  who  were  responsible  to  the 
human  family  at  large.  Our  side-windows  were  down, 
and  as  the  breeze  fluttered  through  intermittently,  I 
caught  a  word  or  two  from  the  front  seat.  Such  queer, 
matter-of-fact  remarks,  between  the  two  men  ;  Aden 
risking  his  children  on  our  good  faith,  Douglas  tak- 
ing his  child  out  —  and  how  should  we  bring  her 
back  again  I  They  spoke  of  the  old  carriage,  how 
it  held  its  own  after  the  years  in  the  hayless  barn  at 
the  Doldrums  (since  the  establishment  begun  in 
hope  had  declined  to  the  uses  of  waiting  without 
hope).  Aden  said  he  used  canned  milk  in  his  family, 
but  we  could  get  milk  and  ice  from  a  dairy-ranch, 
and  he  pointed  it  out  with  his  whip  as  we  passed  it. 
He  was  an  Englishman  of  the  plain  people  and  no 
one  was  quite  sure  whether  his  name  was  Aden  or 
Hayden,  but  it  did  n't  matter :  he  was  keeping  his 
provisional  word  to  the  doctor  and  was  even  cheer- 
ful about  it.  He  told  Douglas  that  his  wife  was  n't 
scared.  She  had  a  doctor's  book  which  said  just  the 
same  as  Dr.  Davenport  did  about  giving  the  fever. 
As  far  as  they  had  read  up  in  the  book,  the  doctor 

148 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

seemed  to  be  about  right.  We  ^d  all  do  our  best  and 
obey  orders,  and  if  anything  happened,  we  'd  have 
to  take  it  as  it  come  —  implying  that  the  ways  of 
Providence  are  not  writ  in  any  book  that  man  has 
learned  to  read. 

We  were  in  the  very  heart  of  the  morning  light, 
moving  swiftly  across  the  gray-green  plain.  The  line 
of  the  mesa-lands,  low  at  first  with  mountains  snow- 
capped above  it,  now  rose  brown  and  bare  (where 
ploughed  ground  had  gone  back  to  desert)  close  ahead 
and  cut  off  the  mountains.  Also  a  windmill  strode  up 
against  the  sky.  We  drove  in  through  a  gate  that 
stood  open  and  I  saw  the  long  sweep  on  and  up  the 
bluff  of  two  lines  of  skeleton  poplars  —  those  that  had 
leafed  out  and  died  **  when  the  May  winds  began  to 
blow."  The  May  wind  was  blowing  now,  but  there 
was  nothing  more  left  that  could  die  —  unless  I  held 
it  here  in  my  arms.  I  choked  as  I  heard  that  wind, 
the  same  that  had  haunted  the  silences  coming  across 
on  the  Oregon  Short  Line.  Thrills  of  excitement 
shuddered  inside  me.  This  was  my  first  stark  responsi- 
bility for  life  and  death,  and  one  mistake,  one  slip  of 
mine,  one  moment's  forgetfulness,  might  ruin  all  the 
others'  work  and  lose  the  battle.  The  fear  of  it  almost 
stopped  my  breathing  as  we  came  in  sight  of  the 
house  on  our  slow  climb,  and  drew  up  in  front  of  a 
long,  empty  veranda  opposite  a  door  wide  open  into 
a  room  bare  and  full  of  light. 

We  went  inside,  and  when  I  saw  the  clean,  lifeless 
rooms  smiling  in  the  morning  sunshine  that  flooded 
them  through  curtainless  windows,  I  thought  of  the 

149 


EDITH  BONHAM 

smiling  dead  alone  with  their  mysterious  dreams. 
The  gentle  ghosts  of  that  house  gathered  in  the  empti- 
ness, the  wide,  cool,  peaceful  rooms  received  their 
child.  Little  Phoebe  stretched  herself  out  on  her  moth- 
er's bed,  turned  easily  on  one  side  and  slid  into  the 
half-delirious  sleep  of  fever.  We  watched  her  a  few 
moments  and  went  softly  outside  for  our  first  consul- 
tation. 

It  began  with  a  man's  notebook  always  handy,  a 
bent  head  listening,  and  things,  things!  I  knew  a 
little  what  was  before  us,  and  all  the  way  out  I  had 
been  trying  to  remember  not  to  forget  —  things  I 
might  need  in  the  middle  of  the  night  three  miles 
from  town. 

The  house  was  the  first  sketch  of  a  home.  There 
was  a  very  definite  plan,  but  no  architecture.  It  lay 
out  on  that  long  shelf  of  land,  the  main  rooms  facing 
the  view,  like  dominoes  placed  endwise.  The  wing 
which  the  Adens  occupied  made  an  L  at  the  back, 
and  what  plumbing  there  was,  all  the  living  conven- 
iences, were  with  them.  I  had  the  big  fireplace  in  the 
sitting-room,  the  chimney  going  up  outside  against 
the  gable,  and  the  two  piazzas  that  made  our  halls  of 
communication  and  gave  us  a  few  feet  of  shade.  Noth- 
ing rose  above  the  level  of  the  mesa  except  the  chim- 
ney, one  or  two  stovepipes  for  the  kitchen  and  the 
mighty  windmill  farther  down  the  bluff,  where  it  nar- 
rowed and  fell  away  like  a  cape  into  the  sea  of  plain. 
Grass  and  weeds  and  dead  little  poplars  all  seemed 
desiccated  in  the  sun  and  wind.  And  there  was  com- 
plete silence  save  our  own  sounds  about  the  empty 

150 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

house  and  the  whir  and  clank  of  the  windmill  which 
practically  never  ceased  and  so  became  one  with  the 
wind  which  never  ceased.  Yes ;  there  were  occasional 
silences,  when  Aden  unshipped  the  windmill  in  order 
to  climb  the  derrick  and  oil  machinery  up  there  seventy- 
five  feet  from  the  ground.  Then  we  heard  the  wind 
alone. 

Our  first  precaution  for  the  Adens  took  the  form 
of  a  rope  stretched  across  the  front  veranda  part-way 
down ;  it  was  a  little  better  than  an  imaginary  line 
dividing  the  clean  from  the  unclean,  to  put  it  strongly. 
On  their  side  of  that  rope  I  never  set  foot  nor  they 
on  mine.  My  supplies  of  all  sorts,  ice  and  milk,  fresh 
water,  clean  clothes  which  Aden  brought  from  town, 
everything  went  over  or  under  that  rope.  Mrs.  Aden 
slid  her  trays  with  my  meals  and  the  fever-diet  under, 
and  tapped  with  a  cane  on  the  wall.  When  I  sent 
them  back  disinfected,  I  rang  a  little  bell,  which  I 
used  like  a  leper  when  I  went  out  of  bounds.  In  a 
general  way  I  was  n't  expected  to  be  seen  around  the 
back  premises  at  all.  I  rang  my  bell  also  to  summon 
Aden,  who  was  our  expressman  to  town.  Every  article 
we  sent  to  the  laundry  had  first  to  be  soaked  in  dis- 
infectants, and  nobody  could  help  me  here.  Well  I 
remember  the  clank  of  those  granite-iron  tubs  which 
I  used  to  haul  about  and  the  weight  of  the  sheets 
dripping  from  their  bath  of  stinging  chemicals.  They 
were  hung  out  on  the  back  piazza  facing  the  morning 
sun;  Aden  took  them  in  when  they  were  dry.  As 
there  were  no  pantries  or  storeroom  in  my  part,  I  had 
to  invent  places  for  keeping  things  near  by  and  these 

151 


EDITH  BONHAM 

we  racked  our  brains  to  defend  from  the  pack-rat 
who  was  always  with  us.  I  can't  say  I  ever  saw  but 
one  of  him  at  once,  though  legions  seemed  to  besiege 
the  house  at  night,  but  that  one  I  have  heard  drop  on 
the  floor  from  scuttling  along  a  wainscot-ledge  with 
a  thump  like  a  large  cat.  By  the  doctor's  orders,  as  I 
had  never  had  the  fever,  my  cot  was  in  the  outer 
room  with  the  door  open  into  Phoebe's  room,  but 
after  chasing  a  pack-rat  over  the  floors  and  over  the 
foot  of  her  bed  one  moonlight  night,  my  darling 
screaming  and  cowering  under  the  bedclothes,  I 
moved  inside  and  told  the  doctor  why.  He  smiled  I 
He  was  a  sensible  man  —  "Oh,  well;  you  won't  get 
it,''  he  prophesied. 

He  must  have  elaborated  the  details  of  our  quaran- 
tine with  a  fierce  satisfaction.  I  can  see  now  that  he 
carried  it  to  the  point  of  absurdity.  One  terrible  mis- 
take had  visited  this  family  under  his  care  —  he  must 
have  set  his  teeth  (those  remarkably  square,  white, 
efficient-looking  implements)  on  the  resolve  that 
there  should  be  no  nonsense  now,  and  there  was  n't. 
Or  if  there  was  nonsense  in  the  right  direction,  what 
blessed  folly  it  was  1  We  were  the  bond  who  alone  are 
free.  Our  bondage  gave  us  the  right  to  ask  the  Adens' 
help  with  their  own  children  as  hostages.  It  gave 
Douglas  Maclay  the  right  to  visit  us,  under  bonds, 
each  evening  of  our  imprisonment,  and  those  visits 
after  a  while,  when  she  was  n't  too  sick  to  care,  were 
the  best  tonic  his  child  could  have  had :  whatever  I 
wanted  her  to  do  all  day  she  did  that  papa  at  night 
might  know  she  had  been  "good."    She  cuddled 

152 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

down  in  the  deep  sleep  of  convalescence  after  the  bliss 
of  his  good-nights  —  and  it  was  only  a  look,  or  looks 
and  words,  across  the  barrier  between  them,  for  the 
sake  of  little  brother's  safety  at  home.  She  well 
understood  the  meaning  of  our  bonds.  But  this  was 
long  later. 

First,  were  the  tired  evenings  when  we  walked  the 
top  of  the  bluff,  he  to  windward  of  my  blowing  skirts, 
and  I  gave  him  the  day's  report  and  he  schemed  to 
my  advantage,  thinking  of  ways  to  save  work  inside. 
He  supplied  me  with  duplicate  trays  and  dishes  that 
I  might  take  my  own  time  over  the  disinfecting  and 
boil  my  water  in  the  cool  of  the  morning,  since  it 
had  to  be  done  over  an  open  fire.  Kerosene  stoves 
were  smelly  things  in  those  days,  and  the  wonderful 
nursing-conveniences  that  have  come  in  with  electric- 
ity were  unknown.  (Besides,  we  had  no  electricity.) 

I  reck  nothing  of  piling  on  details  in  this  part  of  my 
story.  Those  six  weeks  on  the  mesa  were  the  most 
searching  experience  of  my  life,  and  their  conse- 
quences spread  over  many  years  that  followed.  As  the 
mesa  lay  out  there  under  the  bare  sky,  so  was  I  ex- 
posed and  sorted  and  winnowed  and  beat  upon  in  the 
glare  of  a  mortal  mistake  crueler  than  many  a  crime. 
And  as  the  shadow  of  the  mesa  at  sunrise  and  at 
moonrise  extended  far  across  the  valley,  so  over  the 
subsequent  levels  of  my  life  the  shadow  of  that  six 
weeks  extended.  Also  the  mesa  joins  on  to  a  higher 
plain  of  its  own  on  which  it  appears  to  proceed  in- 
definitely till  it  reaches  the  sky ;  but  the  main  thing 
about  it  to  me  then,  was  its  isolation  and  elevation,  in 

153 


EDITH  BONHAM 

a  stripped,  stern  way,  above  the  whole  plain  of  my 
former  existence. 

This  is  my  apology,  if  apologies  are  needed,  for 
a  Swiss  Family  Robinson  sort  of  recital,  and  I  pro- 
ceed. I  had  not  enough  clothes  suited  to  the  work, 
and  through  my  masculine  chain  of  communication 
with  town,  —  Douglas  to  order,  Dick  to  buy,  Aden  to 
fetch  and  carry, — a  nurse's  outfit  was  somehow  pro- 
vided. Plain  short  skirts  and  tailored  blouses  that 
must  have  been  chopped  out  by  the  million  in  Chicago 
or  New  York,  for  the  Western  trade.  But  the  touching 
thing  to  me  was  they  were  all  white  !  With  that  high 
and  haughty  disregard  for  wash-bills  which  only  a  man 
can  soar  to,  I  was  become  a  white  nurse  I  Even  the 
doctor  looked  pleased. 

Collars  I  forgot ;  corsets  likewise ;  sleeves  were 
easily  disposed  of  and  had  to  be,  as  I  was  always 
liable  to  be  up  to  my  elbows  in  something.  Shoes, 
as  my  feet  gave  out,  were  cast  aside  for  a  pair  of 
moccasins  somebody  dug  up  from  somewhere — it 
was  Douglas  who  produced  them  from  his  pocket 
one  night  and  sniffed  their  odor  apologetically  be- 
fore handing  them  to  me.  They  smelled  curiously  of 
a  long  life  in  the  neighborhood  of  camp-fires  and 
dried  fish.  We  had  a  sort  of  dump  below  the  bluff, 
—  a  scandal,  of  course,  but  we  couldn't  hide  any- 
thing, even  our  sins,  in  that  place.  I  remember  I  sat 
down  at  once  and  clothed  my  feet  in  those  soft, 
yielding  treasures  and  flung  my  slippers  with  heels 
clean  over  the  edge.  And  Douglas  approved  the  act 
with  a  smile. 

154 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

And  so  all  day  and  often  half  the  night,  I  padded 
about  the  floors  of  my  hospital,  floors  that  I  cleaned 
with  my  own  hands.  As  I  looked  from  room  to  room 
I  sighed  to  think  how  prisoned,  **  cabined  "  Nanny 
must  have  felt  before  she  found  these  ample  halls  of 
peace.  She  wanted  only  one  thing  —  room,  and  he 
gave  it  to  her ;  unadulterated  space. 

Silent,  but  not  uncomprehending  man  !  Even  in  a 
solitude  like  this  she  had  dared  to  think  of  life  with 
him  alone.  Was  there  anything  more  to  be  said 
about  that  marriage  !  I  at  least  thought  not.  He  had 
seen  the  one  or  two  essentials  as  she  saw  them ;  he 
had  known  how  to  house  her  spirit  living ;  he  had 
known  where  to  lay  her  body  dead.  I  sheathed  my 
sword  of  battle  with  this  man  (it  had  sneaked  back 
some  time  before)  —  I  took  ofT  my  hat  to  him  — 
though  it 's  hardly  the  custom  and  I  never  wore  a 
hat  out  there.  And  I  no  longer  pitied  Nanny  even 
the  long  waiting  and  the  dying  crops ;  and  when  all 
was  lost  and  abandoned  and  the  dream  was  done, 
there  could  have  been  no  ignoble  regrets.  It  was  a 
good  dream  and  their  arrangements  with  nature  had 
been  sound ;  only  certain  men  did  not  keep  their 
word,  or  could  not,  with  certain  other  men.  I  under- 
stood the  place  was  called  **  Maclay's  Folly."  I  could 
not  imagine  that  he  would  have  cared  what  it  was 
called. 

I  don't  know  whether  Captain  Nashe  had  given 
them  to  me  or  whether  they  came  through  my  great 
scare  about  Phoebe,  but  in  the  strong  light  I  dressed 
in  every  morning,  I  discovered  my  first  gray  hair  — 

155 


EDITH  BONHAM 

several  of  them,  in  fact.  They  could  n't  conceal  them- 
selves, for  my  hair  is  absolutely  black,  —  soot-black, 
papa  called  it.  He  liked  its  smoky  fineness  and  ab- 
sence of  gloss,  and  because  it  was  crispy  its  whole 
length,  it  was  easy  to  pack  into  any  shape  he  desired. 
All  studios  are  a  stage,  and  in  our  day  we  have 
played  many  parts,  my  hair  and  I  and  every  out- 
ward feature  of  me.  I  don't  know  what  papa  would 
have  done  without  drawable  daughters.  Essie  was 
the  ballroom  beauty,  superb  in  evening  dress :  I  had 
less  avoirdupois  and  less  beauty  except  to  the  weird 
eye  of  an  artist,  but  papa  thought  he  could  do  more 
with  me  in  expression.  He  liked  what  he  called  the 
"  sling  "  to  my  poses  —  I  **  slang  "  myself  about 
those  rooms  to  some  purpose  in  those  days.  I  used 
to  wish  (with  that  curious  feeling  that  it  was  a  life- 
time ago)  that  the  dear  man  could  have  seen  me  as 
I  was  now  I  He  would  n't  have  given  a  fig  for  his 
Tahitian  dancers  if  he  could  have  drawn  his  own 
daughter  with  her  slop-pails.  I  was  certainly  as 
brown  as  they.  This  hardened  sort  of  self-conscious- 
ness becomes  second  nature  if  one  is  brought  up  in 
a  studio.  The  outside  of  one  is  no  more  one's  self 
than  the  garments  one  poses  in.  I  had  personated, 
off  and  on,  most  of  the  beautiful  women  in  history, 
or  classic  myth,  or  poetry,  ancient  and  modern :  I 
had  been  Sister  Helen,  and  Circe,  and  Isabella  with 
her  Pot  of  Basil  —  not  for  papa  I  he  smiled  on  literary 
subjects  as  he  did  on  illustration ;  but  he  never  spoiled 
another  child's  game.  One  reason,  I  think,  why  he 
could  draw  from  me  better  than  from  Essie  was  a 

156 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

slight  suspicion  that  Essie  smiled  on  his  game.  Her 
cool  eye  upon  him  when  she  posed  for  him,  I  could 
see  put  him  out.  He  was  never  so  absorbed  as  to 
lose  his  sensitiveness  to  the  human  eye,  even  the  eye 
of  a  daughter.  As  I  say,  I  had  begun  to  think  of  my 
life  in  New  York  (not  six  months  ago)  as  what  old 
people  call  the  past.  Long  and  forever  past,  it  seemed 
to  me.  I  could  afford  to  forgive  its  little  grinds  and 
ironies.  Never  again  should  I  be  able  to  squabble 
heartily  even  with  Captain  Nashe.  I  used  to  laugh 
aloud  sometimes,  alone  with  these  back  thoughts, 
with  a  sense  of  emancipation  as  by  years  or  death. 

I  lived  with  the  dead  in  those  days,  much  more  in 
reality  than  with  the  living.  This  ought  not  to  be 
hard  to  explain,  but  I  suppose  it  will  be  because  my 
life  at  this  time  was  not  normal.  No  nurse,  for  in- 
stance, would  understand  its  exaggerations  of  what 
to  the  profession  is  all  in  the  day's  work.  What  I  call 
my  toil  out  there,  and  the  breathless,  choking  excite- 
ment of  the  first  ten  days  when  the  case  was  acute, 
no  white-gowned  nurse,  nor  blue-gowned  either, 
would  understand,  unless  she  were  to  go  back  to  the 
beginning  of  her  training.  It  was  the  beginning  of 
my  training  in  several  ways. 

Following  this,  with  my  child's  convalescence, 
came  the  blissful  reaction  when  I  felt  like  the  bride 
of  joy.  And  with  it  a  sense  of  immense  floods  of 
time,  hours  for  thinking.  I  could  lie  awake  nights 
for  the  pure  pleasure  of  my  thoughts.  I  had  sleep 
**  to  burn."  If  everything  was  dead  outside,  and  the 
house  inside  despoiled  by  absence  of  pictures,  books, 

157 


EDITH  BONHAM 

all  signs  of  Nanny's  life  and  presence  there,  it  still 
was  alive  to  me  with  memories  —  I  dwelt  in  a  mem- 
ory-garden of  my  own  ;  and  distinctly  I  felt  at  times 
that  she  was  there  with  me.  How  else,  I  asked  my- 
self, had  I  done  this  which  seemed  a  miracle?  My 
patient  had  developed  none  of  the  sequelce  Dr.  Daven- 
port had  threatened  me  with.  We  had  no  sequel  to 
the  inflammation  that  we  fought  in  her  little  swollen 
throat.  Nothing  went  wrong  ;  my  own  strength  held 
out  —  it  positively  increased.  Day  by  day  I  spent  it 
as  it  was  given,  night  after  night  I  lay  down  aching 
in  every  muscle  with  the  delicious  pain  of  relaxation. 
And  I  did  not  catch  the  fever.  I  could  n't,  with  Nanny 
on  my  side  with  the  angels.  Now  I  understood  why 
nuns  fret  not  at  their  narrow  cells,  why  convent-life 
may  give  wings  to  the  spirit :  not  without  help,  I 
thought,  from  the  spirits  of  the  blest.  That  help  I 
felt  sure  I  had.  In  short,  I  became  a  mystic  and  tem- 
porarily insane. 

But,  eveiiing  after  evening,  I  walked  the  bluff-path 
that  we  had  made  ourselves,  with  Douglas  at  my  side, 
not  near  me,  and  we  talked  a  divine  sort  of  common 
sense.  I  did  not  betray  myself  to  him  —  my  strange 
infatuation  with  my  bonds :  the  long  days  when 
hardly  a  word  was  said  to  me  or  an  eye  looked  at 
me  but  my  child's  watching  me  from  her  bed.  Not 
as  she  had  watched  me  at  first  when  I  laid  hands  on 
her  life,  but  as  I  knew  she  had  regarded  her  own 
mother,  taking  her  as  much  a  matter  of  course  as  the 
glass  of  water  on  her  table  or  the  march  of  sunbeams 
on  the  wall.    When  I  went  forth  to  empty  my  pails 

158 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

off  the  edge  of  the  bluff,  every  being  kept  away. 
Alone  I  could  stand  and  open  my  chest  with  great 
breaths  of  that  air,  and  clasp  my  hands  behind  my  head 
and  look  up  deep  into  the  amazing  sky  I  Early  morn- 
ing, and  evening  after  Douglas  went  away,  I  chose 
my  time.  Each  morning  the  mountains  were  there 
inconceivably  the  same.  The  Owyhees  swung  down 
along  the  southern  sky  and  where  they  approached 
the  Boise  Mountains  with  their  near  foothills,  there 
was  a  break  and  through  it  one  looked  far  off  into  the 
Powder  River  country  and  saw  the  Blue  Mountains 
of  Oregon.  As  I  knew  very  little  Western  geogra- 
phy these  names  were  as  new  to  me  as  names  in  a 
fairy-tale.  All  fairy-tales  —  except  one  —  were  tame  to 
this.  "  And  the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the  sixth 
day,"  I  used  to  say  to  myself  aloud.  I  fancied  I  knew 
why  evening  came  before  morning  in  that  stupen- 
dous record.  Night  is  the  constructive  time  when 
miracles  are  to  be  wrought ;  night  for  the  mind  and 
spirit,  day  for  the  body  and  will. 


XVI 

We  were  nearing  the  close  of  the  fifth  week,  our 
patient  well  advanced  in  the  last  stage  called  desqua- 
mation. The  end  was  in  sight,  but  Dr.  Davenport 
took  care  I  should  go  in  fear  of  that  end.  In  a  few  of 
his  snapped-off  sentences  he  taught  me  what  break- 
ing up  quarantine  means  according  to  rules.  The  rules 
were  pure  technique;  mechanical,  he  said,  but  the 
mechanism  in  this  case  was  me.  He  frowned  above 
his  kind,  tired  eyes  while  he  gave  me  a  few  par- 
ticulars. Caulking  doors  and  windows,  narrowing 
my  line  of  retreat  until  a  hair  perhaps  divides  the 
False  and  True  —  after  the  work  inside  was  done,  my 
patient  purified  and  sent  forth  into  Mrs.  Aden's  arms, 
my  own  caste  restored  standing  on  my  island  of 
sterilization  —  no  part  of  me  thereafter  must  come  in 
contact  with  any  part  of  the  infected  rooms  except 
the  soles  of  the  slippers  I  stood  in  (as  I  had  n't 
wings),  which  must  be  cast  from  the  feet  that  wore 
them  back  into  the  room  I  was  leaving,  and  the  knob 
of  the  door  I  closed  on  my  vile  past  must  be  clean 
—  medically  clean  —  before  I  touched  it  with  my 
regenerated  hand  I  It  was  like  "  the  backward  mut- 
terings  of  dissevering  power." 

**  You  light  your  sulphur  fires  the  last  thing,  you 
know.  Be  sure  they  are  smoking  well  before  you 

i6o 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

leave  them.  Each  pan  must  stand  on  bricks  or  a 
piece  of  zinc,  or  you  '11  set  fire  to  the  house." 

"And  then  do  I  *  walk  backward  with  rod  re- 
versed '  ?"  I  asked,  to  see  the  doctor  regard  me  with 
professional  suspicion  as  to  my  wits  in  this  warm 
weather :  however,  he  had  gathered  that  my  words 
were  as  chaff  to  the  few  grains  of  sense  he  could  de- 
pend on  in  carrying  out  his  orders. 

I  saw  very  clearly  that  I  should  be  near  collapse 
before  my  spells  were  done  in  those  air-tight  rooms 
after  a  scalding-hot  bath  and  washing  my  hair.  The 
doctor  spoke  of  that  incidentally;  I  wondered  how 
he  would  like  to  wash  his  hair  if  he  had  a  yard  of  it, 
with  the  temperature  at  104°. 

I  listened  with  gibes  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue,  but 
there  was  no  frivolity  in  my  soul.  I  made  a  list  of 
each  thing  I  was  required  to  do  and  the  order  in  which 
it  must  be  done^  that  no  back  step  should  be  taken,  no 
step  aside,  no  instant's  forgetfulness  —  sudden  mania 
I  could  not  guard  against.  I  began  to  fear  something 
might  crack  in  my  brain  at  the  last  and  ruin  all.  So, 
in  these  days,  my  heart  began  again  that  heavy  beat- 
ing that  had  made  it  difficult  to  swallow  food  all  the 
first  week  out  there,  for  I  knew  that  for  the  *'  little 
son "  Douglas  now  talked  of  so  often,  my  last  day 
would  be  the  critical  one. 

When  I  spoke  to  him  that  evening  of  my  lesson, 
he  remarked,  '*  Nice  cheerful  companion,  that  doctor 
of  yours.  Almost  as  pleasant  as  a  hangman." 

"  I  hang  on  his  words  ! "  I  said.  "  He 's  the  only 
man   I   ever  obeyed  absolutely  without  question. 

161 


EDITH  BONHAM 

Hence,  according  to  the  popular  ideas  about  women," 
—  I  hadn't  thought  ahead  in  this  sentence,  and 
Douglas  looked  at  me  as  if  he  scarcely  cared  for  my 
jokes  about  our  little  doctor — literal-minded  man  I 
Two  literal-minded  men!  Never  had  I  spent  six 
weeks  with  such  a  pair.  I  plunged  into  metaphor — 
sacrilegious  metaphor  —  to  hide  my  confusion. 

"'When  this  corruption  puts  on  incorruption,' " 
had  fresh  meaning  for  me  now,  I  said,  and  oh,  that 
it  were  possible  while  still  in  the  flesh  we  can't  escape 
from,  that  we  might  be  immune  forever  from  one  or 
two  other  things  —  1 

*'  From  what?"  said  he. 

"  *  From  too  much  love  of  living* "  —  I  don't  know 
that  he  knew  I  was  only  quoting —  "  'from  hope  and 
fear  set  free.' "  I  heard  his  long,  deep  breathing  like 
a  sigh  of  some  inevitable  tide.  It  was  a  long  time 
since  I  had  said  anything  wantonly  like  this  to  hurt 
him,  because  we  had  talked  of  those  blessed  common 
things.  I  had  grown  sick  of  other  kinds  of  talk — 
extremely  sick  of  my  own  last  words. 

But  all  these  slips  of  the  tongue  were  part  of  the 
fiendish  way  in  which,  from  the  ambush  of  our  very 
security  and  triumph,  what  we  call  inanimate  nature 
suddenly  sprang  upon  us  and  made  our  last  days 
hideous.  Every  day  a  wind  arose  —  quite  usual,  Aden 
said,  at  this  season.  It  came  from  somewhere  east  of 
us  as  from  a  furnace-mouth  wide  as  the  horizon ;  it 
made  its  own  atmosphere,  thick  and  yellow ;  it  burned 
the  back  lands  to  cinders  and  ashes  and  scooped  them 
up  by  the  acre  and  flapped  them  over  us,  sweeping 

162 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

the  mesa  in  its  path  and  blotting  out  the  valley.  We 
tore  from  room  to  room  shutting  doors  and  windows 
ahead  of  it,  but  it  descended  on  us  like  the  vomit  of 
a  volcano.  The  air  smelled  of  it,  our  food  tasted  of 
it,  its  scum  was  on  our  water-pails  and  lined  our  wash- 
basins ;  our  hands  were  gritty  and  our  clothes  not  nice 
to  touch.  Mrs.  Aden  came  and  wailed  to  me  across 
our  rope  of  the  state  her  part  of  the  house  was  in,  and 
I  wailed  back  of  mine.  The  piazza-floor  under  our  feet 
bore  out  the  tale ;  it  was  white  as  a  sea-beach.  Phoebe 
wandered  from  room  to  room,  overheated  in  the  close- 
ness and  tired  of  all  her  games.  I  felt  like  rending 
my  garments  and  casting  ashes  (but  that  was  n't 
necessary)  on  my  head. 

Perhaps  an  hour  it  lasted  1  Its  recurrences  were  the 
burden,  and  its  results  in  extra  cleaning  at  trying 
hours.  Each  day  when  the  Voice  said,  **  Peace,  be 
still ! "  it  slunk  away  or  died  somewhere  in  the  desert. 
Its  demon-life  was  no  more.  At  sunset  fell  silence ; 
celestial  colors  bloomed  along  the  yellow,  bewitched 
horizon,  and  after  these  faded  slowly  came  the  night. 
We  rose  each  morning  made  anew. 

Phoebe's  room  was  oddly,  charmingly  lighted  by  a 
band  of  windows  opening  like  transoms  near  the  ceil- 
ing; the  rooms  were  high-studded  —  there  was  no 
second-story.  They  opened  above  the  piazza-roof  into 
clear  sky.  It  put  me  in  mind  of  the  beautiful  studio- 
light  at  home.  Sunbeams  in  the  morning,  moonbeams 
at  night  marched  along  the  walls.  Phoebe  caught  the 
sunbeams  in  a  hand-mirror,  sitting  up  in  bed,  and 
scattered  bits  of  rainbows  about  the  room  like  flowers 

163 


EDITH  BONHAM 

from  the  skirts  of  Iris.  All  the  goddesses  of  the  morn- 
ing- were  with  us  when  we  woke,  and  one  immortal 
spirit  was  with  us  all  the  night.  ...  I  used  to  whis- 
per it  to  myself,  her  little  common  name  —  **  Nanny, 
Nanny!"  —  such  a  homely  little  name  for  one  who 
now  inhabited  **  the  lordly  halls  of  death." 

That  they  were  suffering  in  town,  too,  I  judged  by 
Douglas's  appearance  when  he  came  out  to  see  us, 
and  by  the  way  he  stretched  himself  full-length  on  the 
bluff  and  welcomed  what  to  him  must  have  seemed 
our  peace  and  cool  immunity.  I  did  not  say  too  much 
about  the  wind  —  it  was  our  last  week ;  Nanny  must 
have  endured  it  when  it  was  much  worse,  with  fresh- 
ploughed  ground  for  half  a  square  mile  around  her. 
He  brought  the  mail,  and  flowers  that  had  wilted 
against  his  horse's  neck.  And  he  looked  wilted  and 
spent  himself,  when  he  flung  off  his  spurs  and  carried 
my  druggist-parcels  extracted  from  saddle-bags  and 
coat-pockets,  and  spread  them  out  on  the  veranda- 
parapet  to  amuse  Phcebe.  It  was  broad  enough  for 
her  to  squat  on  it  Turkish-fashion  and  play  store,  with 
her  customer  lounging  and  smoking  outside  at  a 
smiling  distance;  also  very  Oriental.  No  purchase 
was  ever  effected  between  the  two ;  there  was  endless 
chaffering,  but  everything  remained  in  stock,  and 
bedtime  closed  the  bazaar.  Phcebe  was  a  little  lady 
about  bedtime.  She  was  not  greedy  with  her  cup  of 
pleasure  —  reluctantly  she  set  it  down  undrained ; 
another  night,  another  taste.  On  the  threshold  she 
would  look  back  and  kiss  her  fingers  to  him,  little 
fatal  fingers!    She  was  fair  with  her  new  skin  and 

164 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

the  bloom  of  a  child's  marvelous  recuperation  —  so 
lovely  and  so  unsafe  I 

•' '  Rappaccini's  daughter,' "  I  whispered  to  him  one 
night.  He  smiled  —  he  did  n't  know  the  lady  nor  pre- 
tend to.  I  owed  him  constant  apologies  for  my  lan- 
guage of  old  quotes.  Like  a  camel  far  from  water- 
pools,  I  was  forced  to  subsist  on  such  refreshment  as 
my  brain-system  had  stored.  He  grudged  me  noth- 
ing, neither  did  I  apologize. 

One  day — it  was  Saturday,  I  remember — the 
Adens  went  to  town  taking  their  two  children  and 
leaving  a  big  clod  of  a  boy  from  the  milk-ranch  to  an- 
swer my  bell.  That  day  I  had  a  special  but  not  divine 
visitation,  unless  it  was  one  of  Wrath.  I  rang  and  rang 
the  bell  when  I  saw  it  coming  —  no  one  answered. 
Clouds  of  winged  ants  (I  did  not  know  them  from  the 
plagues  of  Egypt  I)  bore  down  on  us  from  the  north. 
Our  chimney  was  their  port  of  call,  it  seems,  but  how 
should  one  know  it  was  only  a  call  ?  The  top  of  the 
chimney  soon  was  black,  or  red,  with  them,  embossed 
as  with  moss  or  ivy.  Bunches  of  them  broke  off  in- 
side and  fell  down  on  the  hearth  and  burst,  as  it 
were  a  bomb,  into  myriads  of  the  little  red  mites 
that  swarmed  up  the  walls  and  furniture  and  over 
the  floors  and  over  me.  I  ought  to  have  had  a  hun- 
dred brooms  and  fifty  pairs  of  hands  —  I  had  only  one, 
but  I  lighted  a  great  fire  and  swept  ants  into  it,  as 
Mrs.  Leeks  and  Mrs.  Aleshine  swept  their  way  o'er 
the  deep  to  save  themselves  from  drowning.  I  did 
not,  like  them,  fear  sharks  —  but,  as  I  say,  the  crea- 
tures were  all  over  me  1  I  nearly  burst  my  heart  in  that 

165 


EDITH  BONHAM 

red-hot  Armageddon  when  the  tribes  of  ants  came  up 
against  the  power  of  my  broom.  I  dealt  with  them 
as  Jehovah  and  I  felt  the  peace  of  divine  vengeance 
after  wiping  out  a  few  millions  of  them  (as  I  hoped), 
those  misbelievers  in  their  right  to  roost  on  my 
chimney ! 

This  tale  I  told  to  Douglas  as  we  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  bluff  that  evening.  I  had  expected  him  to  be 
amused,  but  his  mirth  exceeded  the  demand.  It  struck 
me  as  inordinate.  He  rocked  himself  and  lay  back  on 
the  bluff  and  rolled  with  laughter.  It  was  ridiculous, 
in  the  face  of  darkness  where  we  sat.  I  had  never  seen 
him  in  a  paroxysm,  of  laughter,  or  of  anything  be- 
fore. I  was  annoyed  with  him.  Presently  he  sat  up 
and  said,  in  the  language  of  the  country :  "  It 's  not 
what  they  eat  up,  it's  what  they  tramp  down  1 " 

I  did  n't  know  that  he  was  quoting,  and  I  did  n't 
think  it  very  funny  (and  don't  now) — but  that  was 
the  way  we  talked  —  only  half  understanding  each 
other  in  words,  but  with  a  very  good  understanding 
somehow  underneath. 

Then,  seriously,  but  with  amusement  still  twitching 
the  corners  of  his  mustache,  he  told  me  in  effect  what 
a  goose  I  was.  Winged  ants,  like  other  winged  things, 
have  their  appointed  way,  and  are  no  more  to  be 
turned  aside  from  it  than  crawling  ants.  They 
had  n't  wanted  to  fall  down  my  chimney ;  merely  that 
rock  in  the  midst  of  the  sky  was  n't  big  enough  to 
hold  them  all.  If  I  had  simply  gone  out  of  the  room 
and  left  the  veranda-door  open,  by  the  cool  of  day 
they  would  all  have  vanished. 

1 66 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

As  the  moon  rose  later  and  later,  he  stayed  later  to 
get  her  light  riding  back  to  town.  He  would  question 
me  from  time  to  time  :  "  You  must  be  tired  ?  Won't 
you  go  in  when  you  are  ready  ?  I  should  like  to  spend 
the  night  out  here  on  the  ground  if  I  could  I  My 
room  in  town  is  Gehenna."  He  was  still  at  the  stage- 
hotel. 

I  praised  in  this  connection  the  plan  of  our  bed- 
room windows  which  spared  us  the  afternoon  sun. 
**  We  bless  you  every  night,"  I  said. 

"  It  was  n't  my  plan." 

We  were  both  silent  for  a  long  while  (it  was  Nan- 
ny's plan  he  must  have  meant).  The  arm  that  lay 
across  his  chest  went  back  on  the  ground  like  a  flail. 
He  turned  on  his  side  away  from  me.  Very  slowly 
the  light  of  the  full  moon  began  to  show  in  the  dis- 
tant valley  beyond  the  shadow  of  our  hill.  It  touched 
first  a  pennon  of  dust  from  some  late  freighter  crawl- 
ing in  to  Boise. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  sat  up  suddenly,  digging  his 
boot-heels  into  the  ground  and  leaning  his  arms  on 
his  knees.  "  Grant  would  like  to  come  out  to  see 
you.  He  's  been  hinting  for  some  time,  but  I  keep 
forgetting  to  ask  you.  Would  you  like  to  see 
him?" 

"  I  shall  see  him  next  Sunday,  I  suppose,"  said  I. 

**  No ;  he  '11  be  up  at  the  mine.  If  you  wish,  I  '11 
tell  him  to  come  out  some  day  early  next  week.  Is 
that  right  ?  " 

"  Yes.  But  let  him  know  the  rules.  Hailing  dis- 
tance—  tell  him  to  *  speak'  us  and  the  captain  will 

167 


EDITH   BONHAM 

answer.  *  The  bark  Edith  and  Phoebe  forty  days  out 
from  Boise,  homeward  bound.'  " 

Why  did  I  say  it !  He  dropped  his  head  an  instant 
in  his  hands  —  "  homeward  bound,"  to  him  !  But  he 
took  it  very  gallantly  with  something  about  a  long 
voyage  and  a  **  hot  ship  "  for  us,  implying  we  had 
suffered  on  the  trip. 

"  No,"  I  disclaimed  ;  **  it  has  been  a  wonderful  voy- 
age—  and  if  we  have  n't  found  the  Happy  Isles,  /  've 
found  a  better  place,  a  sort  of  Soul's  Rest.  Have  n't 
I  heard  of  a  town  out  here  by  that  name  ?  " 

**  Not  very  near  here,  but  the  same  sort  of  '  rest ' : 
wind  and  sun  and  high  dry  plain." 

"Well,  I  have  found  out  here  something  that  I 
had  almost  lost  —  the  *  power  to  dream '  —  to  dream 
of  her." 

**  Do  you  mean  literally  —  to  dream  —  ?  " 

**  No ;  but  I  think  Phcebe  dreams  of  her  and  for- 
gets and  does  n't  know  why  she  is  so  happy  when 
she  wakes.  If  you  don't  mind,  I  'd  like  to  speak  of 
her,  just  once?" 

"  It  would  be  strange  if  I  should  mind  your  speak- 
ing." 

"  I  have  always  been  able  to  see  her  very  clearly ; 
I  suppose  it  is  what  is  called  visual  memory.  But  I 
lost  her  somehow  in  Boise.  On  the  little  poplar- 
walk,  sometimes,  I  could  see  her  —  but  out  here  it 
all  came  back.  I  have  a  garden  of  memories  planted 
on  this  hill  —  every  flower  a  thought  of  her.  Flowers 
like  that  don't  grow  in  crowded  soil  —  they  need 
solitude  and  concentration  with  the  one  idea.  Then 

i68 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

it  becomes  more  than  a  dream  ;  it  is  vision  I  And 
you  —  I  have  felt,  believe  me  —  what  this  place  must 
mean  to  you  I  I  am  careless  sometimes  in  my  words ; 
perhaps  because  I  am  so  sure  you  must  know  that  I 
know  I  I  have  taken  you  into  my  garden,  just  as  it 
might  have  been  with  us  three  if  —  if  —  I "  I  rose  and 
he  was  on  his  feet  too,  and  without  thinking  he 
started  to  offer  me  his  hand.  Then,  of  course,  I  drew 
back  and  he  remembered  — 

"Keep  me  in  that  garden,"  he  said.  "And  if  you 
lose  her  again  we'll  come  out  here  for  —  our  souls' 
rest." 

This  was  my  last  night  of  happy  thoughts  on  the 
mesa.  Of  course  it  is  no  way  to  tell  a  story  —  in 
dark  hints,  and  very  likely  the  wise  reader  has 
guessed  already  what  was  coming.  But  I  was  far  from 
that  sort  of  wisdom  —  any  approach  to  it  in  my 
thoughts  would  have  been  an  inconceivable  insult 
to  the  man  and  to  myself.  I  can  never  be  too  thank- 
ful that  I  was  not  wise  —  was  in  no  respect  on  my 
guard ;  that  the  shock  when  it  came  found  me  just 
as  helpless  and  left  me  just  as  crazed :  as  a  bird  that 
has  chosen  a  safe  crotch  for  her  nest  hid  in  the  heart 
of  the  tree,  and  has  spent  days  adding  a  straw  or  a 
feather  or  any  bit  of  another's  waste  that  is  precious 
to  her  that  can  use  it,  and  gone  on  happily  weaving 
her  nest  and  filling  it  with  dreams,  fears  nothing  in 
the  future,  sees  no  warning  in  the  sky,  before  the 
wind  comes  that  tears  the  nest  from  the  tree  and 
strews  her  hopes  broadcast  on  the  ground.  She  too 
is  crazed  with  her  loss  —  hopeless  where  or  how  to 

169 


EDITH  BONHAM 

begin  her  life  anew.  She  circles  with  cries  about  the 
place  of  her  life's  tragedy.  What  matter  to  her  if  the 
wind  that  bloweth  where  it  listeth  knew  not  of  her 
nest  —  nor  understood  the  ruin  that  was  left  in  its 
path. 

I  was  extraordinarily  happy  that  night  —  so  happy 
I  could  n't  stay  in  bed.  When  the  moon  had  crossed 
the  zenith  to  the  side  towards  the  valley  and  her 
light  came  in  through  the  high  west  windows  and 
struck  upon  the  wall  above  Phoebe's  bed,  I  took  a 
blanket  and  stole  out  of  the  door  onto  the  back  ve- 
randa. The  Adens*  wing  shut  in  that  end  near  the 
door.  Out  at  the  far  end  towards  the  north  one  saw 
dim  hills  where  the  canal-line  cut  its  way  through, 
making  a  white  gash.  Eastward  the  plain  that  joins 
the  mesa  went  back  in  desert  land  or  ploughed  land 
returned  to  desert ;  at  night  the  mountain-line  with- 
drew, the  whole  earth  disappeared  as  it  were  and  the 
sky  was  paramount.  Stars,  millions  of  stars,  and  the 
great  soaring  path  of  the  Milky  Way  amazingly  white 
and  sown  with  sparks  of  light  defying  the  moon. 
The  wind  blew  soft  and  steady ;  I  heard  the  prosper- 
ous tune  of  the  windmill  go  on  and  on,  but  I  could 
not  see  its  bulk  against  the  sky  ;  it  was  too  far  down 
the  bluff  behind  the  house-wing.  Only  the  five  dead 
poplars,  which  must  have  been  quite  trees  when  they 
were  planted,  whisked  about  in  the  night-gale  like 
witches'  brooms.  It  was  n't  beauty  —  it  was  a  lofty 
loneliness  that  resembles  the  sea,  far  inland  as  we 
were.  I  began  to  feel  how  people  who  have  lived  in 
such  places  can  never  go  back  to  the  old  values  of 

170 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

life  in  villages  and  towns ;  they  must  forever  be  the 
*'  gypsy-souls,"  homeless  in  the  paths  of  men.  .  .  . 
But  I  was  no  longer  homeless ;  and  by  the  blessing  of 
God  I  had  earned  my  home.  All  would  be  well  when 
we  w^ent  back  to  the  house  in  Boise :  no  more  explana- 
tions for  conscience  (or  vanity)  to  make  and  for  pride 
to  withhold.  My  paymaster  was  a  man  of  good  coun- 
sel and  a  friend.  Phoebe  was  now  the  child  of  my 
arms  as  well  as  of  my  duty  and  my  will.  She  had 
found  her  own  way  to  those  arms  when  she  needed 
them. 

She  had  asked  me  those  questions  —  about  her 
mother  —  which  the  daughter  of  a  skeptic  dared  not 
answer.  I  had  given  her  allegories,  fairy-tales,  verses 
from  the  PsalmS.  She  was  not  satisfied.  The  little 
lonely  soul  retreated  within  itself  and  answered  its 
own  questions.  But  when  she  was  able  to  sit  up 
and  be  dressed,  yet  her  strength  not  returned,  she 
would  get  into  my  lap,  we  would  hug  up  to  each 
other,  she  would  find  a  place  for  her  head,  and  her 
long  legs  would  dangle,  but  we  were  most,  most 
content  I  We  rocked  and  told  stories  and  sang 
scraps  of  old  songs  and  said  bits  of  poetry,  and  one 
day  I  repeated  to  her :  — 

"  Motherless  baby,  babyless  mother, 
Bring  them  together  to  love  one  another." 

Her  arms  clasped  me  closer  with  a  slight  shudder : 
she  was  a  child  of  a  remarkable  precocity  of  feeling. 
"Say  it  again  I "...  I  said  it  again  and  many  times 
over,  and  it  became  a  charm  to  rest  on  in  the  face  of 

what  I  learned  must  have  been  the  ancient,  nameless 

171 


EDITH  BONHAM 

dread  after  the  child  of  mortality  has  heard  of  that 
thing  called  death. 

''You  won't  go  too?"  she  asked  me.  "Please, 
don't  go  I" 

"I  won't  go  —  ever,  so  long  as  you  want  me, 
dear." 

"But  I  do  want  you.  I  don't  want  that — to  hap- 
pen to  you  that  happened  to  mamma." 

"  It  won't  happen  to  me,  and  I  shall  not  go  away." 

We  kissed  on  that  promise,  pariahs  as  we  knew 
ourselves,  dangerous  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  but  safe 
in  each  other's  arms.  Next  morning  she  smiled  across 
the  beds  at  me :  —  "  *  Babyless  mother  1 '  here 's  your 
baby  I "  Was  it  any  wonder  I  felt  that  I  should  leave 
the  mesa  richer  than  I  came  ? 


XVII 

Next  day  was  Sunday  and  we  made  a  special  toilet 
for  papa.  Often  on  Sundays  he  would  come  early  and 
loaf  about  the  veranda  half  the  day,  making  rude 
toys  we  could  burn  when  we  left  the  mesa,  fixing  up 
little  conveniences  for  our  routine :  he  made  a  bed- 
tray  for  Phoebe's  breakfasts ;  he  made  her  a  stool  to 
carry  here  and  there,  as  we  were  short  of  chairs  and 
those  we  had  were  heavy ;  he  made  a  paper  windmill 
that  stood  in  the  window-casing  and  "talked"  to  us, 
as  she  said.  It  fluttered  and  talked  all  day,  but  papa 
did  not  come.  Towards  evening  the  watch  became 
acute ;  like  persons  adrift  on  a  bit  of  wreck  searching 
the  horizon  for  a  sail  —  such  hunger  I  read  in  the 
eyes  of  Douglas's  child.  Every  spurt  of  dust  that 
moved  across  the  plain  we  thought  might  be  his  horse 
galloping  towards  us  from  the  river ;  it  always  turned 
north  long  before  it  reached  our  shelf  of  land.  Had  it 
been  his  it  would  have  gone  out  of  sight  for  a  few 
moments  and  we  should  have  heard  the  clink  of  hoofs 
and  great  hot  strides  before  it  reappeared,  first  a  horse's 
head  and  then  a  rider  topping  the  bluff,  and  the  rider 
would  wave  his  hat  and  hail  us  with  the  shout  Phoebe 
loved.  I  can  hear  it  as  I  write  —  but  I  shall  not  try  to 
reproduce  it  on  this  page ;  it  was  a  raucous,  a  primi- 
tive call,  a  note  for  the  open  and  the  wild.  But  we 
both  loved  it. 

173 


EDITH  BONHAM 

He  did  not  come.  Mrs.  Aden  had  prepared  him  an 
extra  dinner  and  kept  it  waiting ;  night  closed  over 
us,  moonless  and  the  sky  was  fathom-deep  in  stars. 
There  were  a  few  tears  when  bedtime  came,  —  late 
bedtime, —  but  my  little  girl  was  an  angel  of  forgive- 
ness. Papa  *'  could  not  help  it "  somehow,  and  of  course 
he  had  no  means  of  sending  word. 

When  he  did  come  there  was  no  call.  I  was 
struck  cold  by  that  silence,  even  before  I  met  his 
changed  expression.  We  were  outside  in  the  house- 
light  from  a  window  that  pierced  the  dusk,  and  he 
handed  me  a  telegram,  his  head  uncovered,  as  we 
stand  mute  in  the  presence  of  sorrow.  He  went  away 
then  towards  the  stable  and  I  waited  a  moment  be- 
fore opening  my  message.  I  knew  it  meant  papa  — 
my  father  who  wrote  no  letters,  gave  no  sign,  yet  was 
loved  just  the  same.  As  Phoebe  could  forgive  her  one 
day's  disappointment,  so  the  older  child  forgave  a 
whole  lifetime  of  disappointments  little  and  great  in 
the  well-beloved,  and  knew  that  somehow  "  papa 
could  not  help  it."  .  .  .  He  had  died  at  Papeete  and 
been  buried  off-shore  three  miles  from  land,  under  the 
flag  of  France,  which  he  loved  next  to  our  own,  and 
in  the  sea  that  owns  no  flag.  Papa  always  hated  the 
custom  of  moving  the  dead  from  place  to  place.  Cap- 
tain Nashe  had  cabled  Essie,  from  whom  my  message 
came ;  she  would  send  me  the  details  when  she  had 
them  by  letter,  I  wished  that  we  might  hear  no  more. 
Buried  in  the  seal  Of  course  he  would  never  be 
buried  ** plain."  .  .  .  But  it  shouldn't  have  been  — 
not  for  ten  years  more ;  and  I  should  have  been  be- 

174 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

side  him,  and  those  years  might  have  made  his  fame. 
It  was  unforgivable  of  fate  to  cut  us  apart  in  this 
senseless  fashion.  And  it  is  not  the  prematureness 
alone  that  hurts ;  it  is  the  manner  also.  We  demand 
that  the  greatest  thing  that  can  happen  to  us  should  be 
done,  not  dramatically,  but  decently  and  in  order.  One 
may  live  picturesquely,  but  death  is  an  old  institution. 
I  knew  it  must  be  now  in  the  newspapers  with 
smiles  going  round,  sad  smiles  among  his  friends 
at  his  incorrigible  quaintness.  Ah,  well;  I  had  no 
tears  I  I  wandered  off  and  sat  down  —  lay  down  — 
on  the  dry  hill  and  ached  with  it.  The  ground  held 
the  long  day's  heat ;  it  comforted  one  like  the  heart 
of  mother  earth.  As  it  happened  I  was  dead  tired 
that  day  —  for  no  reason  unless  it  were  watching  a 
child's  eyes  grow  tired  with  waiting,  and  the  adorable 
patience  with  which  she  controlled  her  tears.  I  had 
wondered  what  she  would  do  when  her  father,  whom 
she  had  grown  so  to  depend  on,  went  back  to  his 
mines  again.  I  drifted  away  from  my  own  instant 
grief  —  it  would  last :  there  was  no  need  to  press  the 
realization.  I  could  almost  have  fallen  asleep  as  I  lay 
there,  with  sorrow  for  my  pillow,  worn  out  with  the 
pain  of  an  old  regret  that  washed  back  and  over  me 
and  drowned  even  the  pang  of  this  final  loss,  the  end 
of  all  regrets.  And  then,  hearing  Douglas's  step,  I 
roused  myself  to  meet  his  sympathy.  He  had  taken 
the  telegram  and  of  course  he  knew. 

He  came  and  sat  down  beside  me,  a  little  nearer 
than  the  terms  of  quarantine  allowed.  I  knew  that  he 

1/5 


EDITH  BONHAM 

was  looking  at  me,  but  I  did  not  wish  to  speak  nor  to 
hear  him  speak  of  my  loss.  He  would  think  of  it  as 
grief  pure  and  simple ;  it  was  less,  yet  much  more  than 
that.  And  then  he  said  something,  and  the  words  at 
first  conveyed  not  the  slightest  meaning,  unless  the 
shock  of  what  directly  followed  those  first  words  struck 
back  and  for  the  moment  numbed  my  understanding. 

This  was  what  he  said :  "  Edith,  I  wish  you  would 
let  me  take  your  hand.  I  must  have  a  serious  talk 
with  you  —  even  to-night !  It  is  a  great  intrusion,  and 
it  is  very  difficult  to  —  to  say.  It  would  help  me,  that 
sign  of  your  trust  —  that  I  must  count  on  if  I  am  to 
go  on.  Will  you  give  it  to  me?"  He  Held  out  his 
hand. 

I  was  so  astounded  that  I  thought  I  could  n't  have 
heard  him.  But  naturally  I  did  not  give  him  my  hand. 
It  would  have  been  more  natural  to  have  asked  my- 
self could  he  suddenly  have  gone  out  of  his  mind. 

"  You  have  trusted  me  in  other  things  —  I  hope 
you  will  trust  me  now."  Here  I  turned  and  we  faced 
each  other.  Even  in  the  dusk  I  saw  his  pallor,  and 
the  strange,  hurt  smile  with  which  he  met  my  amaze- 
ment. What  in  Heaven's  name  was  coming  1 

"  We  are  going  back  next  week  and  I  wish  you 
would  allow  me  to  announce  our  engagement.  We 
cannot  go  on  like  this.  You  must  come  to  me  alto- 
gether or  you  will  be  driven  from  me.  And  I  need 
you." 

That  was  all  —  I  felt  as  if  stones  out  of  the  sky 
were  rattling  on  my  head.  If  the  whole  hill  that  in- 
stant had  been  swept  away  beneath  us,  the  world 

176 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

could  not  have  changed  for  me  more  than  that  speech 
of  his  had  changed  it  Earthquakes  are  easy  to  under- 
stand. .  .  .  I  don't  know  what  he  saw — I  hope  he 
saw  something  in  my  face  that  stopped  him.  We  con- 
tinued to  look  at  each  other.  He  drew  in  his  breath, 
and  I  could  hardly  gasp :  — 

**  Wait  —  till  I  think  a  moment." 

He  waited.  I  began  to  count,  saying  to  myself 
feebly,  "How  long  is  it?  March,  April,  May,  —  we 
have  been  out  here  six  weeks.  Is  it  even  four  months  1 
Call  it  four  — "  Suddenly,  as  clear  as  print  before 
my  eyes  I  saw  the  inscription  I  had  been  working  on 
those  weeks  he  had  been  away;  the  letters  I  had 
spaced  and  measured  and  traced  in  pencil  and  inked 
in  black  —  I  had  followed  an  old  form  of  wording 
used  on  the  stones  in  the  family  graveyard  at  Lime 
Point,  names  and  dates  going  back  to  the  early  seven- 
teen hundreds:  — 

Erected  by  Douglas  Maclay 

to  the  beloved  memory  of  his  wife 

ANNE  AYLESFORD 

daughter  of  William  and  Phcebe  Gurney  Aylesford 

born  — 

The  drawing  still  was  mine  —  I  would  burn  it  as 
soon  as  we  went  back.  Nameless  be  the  grave  of 
Anne  Aylesford,  forgotten  in  four  months  I  ...  To 
him  I  said  —  "Couldn't  we  put  off  this  *  announce- 
ment' till  we  might  at  least  call  it  a  year  ?  A  year  is 
common :  plenty  of  men  think  a  year  is  long  enough 
to  wait.  Did  you  think  I  would  listen  to  you  in  less 
than  a  year?  Why,  I  must  be  rather  easier  than  the 

177 


EDITH  BONHAM 

easiest!'*  There  was  silence  and  I  cried,  "Do  you 
know  what  I  mean?  Do  you  understand  anything!" 

It  was  impossible  all  at  once  to  grasp  the  full 
measure  and  significance  of  this  infamy.  I  trembled 
with  my  own  impotence  to  speak  as  it  deserved.  As 
I  turned  it  from  side  to  side  and  its  consequences 
spread,  blotting  out  every  peaceful  certainty,  every 
hope  of  that  future  I  had  counted  on,  I  must  have 
raved ! 

I  remember  pouring  out  things  like  this :  "  My 
father,  you  know,  is  dead  :  that  was  your  telegram 
—  it  seems  ten  years  ago,  since  what  you  said  just 
now.  I  believe  you  did  say  it?  You  asked  me  to 
marry  you  —  that  was  what  you  meant  ? "  He  did 
not  undeceive  me.  ..."  Nanny,  Nanny  I "  I  cried, 
**  I  shall  never  grieve  for  you  again.  Six  years  was 
enough  —  she  could  n't  have  lived  with  you  six 
years  without  knowing  what  she  had  married.  She 
must  have  seen  all  around  and  through  you  and 
known  there  was  nothing  there.  She  must  have  died 
of  that  emptiness  —  before  the  accident  of  death. 
Slow  shock  to  her  whole  faith  and  being.  And  she 
must  have  known  that  if  she  did  die,  if  by  any  chance 
she  slipped  out  of  life,  that  chance  would  be  your 
opportunity  to  show  every  one  —  to  make  hideously 
public  —  the  cheat  her  marriage  was,  the  poor  imi- 
tation love  you  gave  her.  Thank  Heaven,  if  this  in- 
sult must  be  hers,  I  am  the  woman  who  shares  it ! 
You  might  have  spoken  to  some  one  who  would  miss 
the  whole  meaning  of  it,  or  not  try  to  make  it  plain 
to  you  what  she  felt  —  she  might  not  think  you 

178 


THE  WATCH   ON  THE  MESA 

worth  it  I  but  only  laugh  at  you  as  the  world  laughs 
at  widowers.  I  have  laughed  at  them,  but  I  don't 
laugh  at  you.  I  know  that  you  are  well  worthy  of 
my  scorn  I  Because  it  is  you,  and  because  it  was  she, 
and  for  that  matter,  because  it  is  I,  this  thing  is  a 
tragedy.  We  —  the  perfect  Three  I  And  what  comes 
next?" 

I  had  paused,  but  he  did  not  speak.  Silence  be- 
tween us  was  unbearable ;  it  gave  more  chance  for 
thought  to  burn  new  places  in  one's  consciousness. 

'*  You  have  cut  the  ground  from  under  me ;  you 
have  insulted  what  I  came  here  to  do  ;  you  make  it 
dishonorable  for  me  to  stay  —  But  I  shall  stay !  It 
was  my  promise  to  Nanny,  it  is  now  my  promise  to 
Phoebe.  She  loves  me  —  she  shall  not  be  wrenched 
from  one  to  another  as  soon  as  her  heart  begins  to 
cling.  Whatever  you  have  said  to  me,  whatever  I 
may  have  been  that  you  should  dare  to  think  you 
could  say  it,  that  does  not  touch  her.  I  shall  see  to  it 
that  it  does  not  and  you  shall  help  me.  I  shall  stay 
for  Nanny's  child  —  even  if  I  am  in  the  position  a 
woman  like  Mrs.  Lavinus  thinks  I  am  in,  knowing 
the  world,  and  widowers  !  " 

He  uttered  one  word  —  "  God  I "  He  got  up  and 
went  away  —  back  on  the  hill,  where  I  heard  him 
walking  up  and  down,  stumbling  now  and  then.  I 
sat  still  and  wandered  and  stumbled  too  in  the  dark 
confusion  of  my  thoughts.  What  was  left  I  had 
blindly  hit  upon  :  Phoebe  was  the  sole  ground  be- 
tween us  now.  It  was  sacred  ground  and  we  might 
still  (now  that  I  was  warned)  keep  it  so.  To  remove 

179 


EDITH  BONHAM 

far  from  her  consciousness  this  wreck  we  had  made 
of  our  part  of  the  compact ;  to  find  some  basis  on 
which  to  communicate  as  to  our  duties  to  Nanny's 
child,  or  my  duties ;  —  that  remained,  and  to  keep 
out  of  each  other's  lives  henceforth. 

As  he  approached  within  speaking  distance  I 
looked  around  and  summoned  him.  "Please  come 
back,"  I  said.  **  Sit  down  —  I  will  be  quiet.  We  have 
things  to  talk  about.  We  begin  all  over  again  now." 

**  Then  let  me  say  one  word  I "  he  interrupted,  and 
I  thought  in  his  hawk-eye  —  the  eye  of  a  creature 
mortally  hurt,  but  full  of  scorn  of  pain,  of  death  -—  I 
saw  an  indignation  equal  to  my  own ;  also  a  man^s 
human  rage  against  a  woman  whose  tirade  he  has 
listened  to  until  he  could  seize  and  choke  her  into 
silence. 

"  This  is  not  ^«ything  you  think  it  is  I  It  is  a  blun- 
der. You  will  hear  no  more  of  it.  Dick  will  be  out 
at  the  end  of  the  week  to  move  you  in  —  I  shall  be 
up  at  the  mines.  After  this  I  will  do  what  I  can  for 
you  at  long  range ;  Dick  will  be  my  substitute." 

That  would  not  do  either,  I  said.  Dick  could  not 
be  his  substitute  with  Phoebe.  I  fairly  beat  the  ground 
in  my  despair. 

"  You  cannot  mean  that  you  desert  your  child  1 
She  must  see  you.  You  don't  know  how  she  has 
grown  to  depend  on  you.  You  must  come  as  you 
promised  her,  and  I  will  keep  out  of  the  way.  There 
must  be  some  working  basis  we  can  meet  on  —  we 
are  not  children  to  refuse  to  speak  !  Men  who  dislike 
and  despise  each  other  do  business  together  for 

1 80 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

money  reasons.  With  Phoebe  for  our  reason  I  should 
think  we  might  do  the  same." 

"  But  you  are  not  a  man,  Edith.  There  is  a  side  to 
this  question  you  do  not  understand,  and  I  cannot 
make  you  —  nor  will  I  try  I " 

"  You  thought  it  would  be  easier  to  marry  me,  I 
suppose.'*  No  ;  taunts  would  not  do,  and  I  must  not 
be  cheap ;  nor  dared  I  antagonize  him  any  further. 
How  terrible  that  I  should  rob  my  motherless  Phoebe 
of  her  father  too,  who  was  good  enough  for  a  child's 
undiscerning  love.  Unhappy  man,  devoid  of  all  the 
heart's  understanding  I  When  one  is  civilized  up  to 
a  certain  point,  rage,  even  long-sustained  reproach, 
becomes  habitually  impossible.  One  has  to  learn  to 
hate  and  revile  ^s  one  learns  to  love  and  forgive.  I 
looked  at  him  —  he  was  just  the  same,  and  I  had 
grown  to  care  very  much  for  his  kind  of  looks ;  his 
features  had  pleased  me  as  I  came  to  know  the  ex- 
pressions they  were  capable  of.  And  there  he  was, 
unaltered !  He  looked  as  tired  as  I  felt  —  as  despair- 
ing ;  leaning  forward,  his  arms  on  his  knees,  crum- 
bling the  dry  grass  in  handfuls  torn  up  from  the 
ground,  milling  it  in  his  palms  and  sifting  the  dust 
between  them.  The  incredible  things  I  had  said  to 
him  it  hurt  me  to  remember,  though  he  were  the 
very  Judas  of  friendship  and  good  faith. 

"  I  know,"  I  said,  relenting,  "  that  we  don't  speak 
the  same  language  in  some  things,  and  I  am  willing 
to  own  that  I  may  have  been  morbid  —  perhaps 
overstrained,  out  here  alone ;  but  we  ought  to  try  to 
understand  why  we  have  hurt  each  other  so  horribly. 

i8i 


EDITH  BONHAM 

I  hate  my  own  words  !  May  I  show  you  my  excuse 
for  them?  —  lay  my  reasons  once  before  you,  calmly, 
reasonably  —  then  we  will  agree  to  forget  it.  I  seem 
to  be  going  mad  when  I  think  of  what  you  have 
said  to  me,  but  I  am  not  mad.  I  cannot  suppose 
that  you  are  —  that  you  should  call  a  thing  like  this 
a  *  blunder.'  I  can't  let  it  pass  as  merely  that  I  Will 
you  listen  ?  —  Let  me  convince  you  that  I  am  not 
mad,  that  what  may  be  common  in  the  world  is  not 
common  to  every  woman's  thought." 
j^    He  listened  as  patiently  as  I  could  ask. 

"First,  there  is  my  father's  death  —  that  has  be- 
come to  me  in  the  last  half-hour  like  an  old,  accus- 
tomed grief,  because  of  this  *  blunder.'  I  do  not 
exaggerate  —  I  cannot  help  stating  it  just  so.  Sor- 
row is  no  longer  a  thing  to  complain  of  in  a  world 
where  a  man  like  you  can  call  —  what  you  said  to 
me  just  now  —  a  'blunder.'  Then,  Nanny — that  is 
the  same  thing ;  I  am  reconciled  to  her  death.  This 
has  done  it.  It  seemed  untimely,  but  she  had  got  all 
the  happiness  she  ever  could  have  had.  Death  at 
any  age  is  not  untimely,  when  life  is  out  of  joint, 
though  it  may  look  fair  enough  outside.  You  see,  I 
knew  her,  though  I  did  not  know  you  !  That  seems 
to  cover  the  case  so  far.  But  now  for  you  and  me  — 
what  we  might  have  been  to  each  other.  Not  the 
perfect  Three  —  that  was  denied  us ;  but  we  might 
have  been  the  perfect  Two.  We  might  have  shown 
what  friendship  can  be  between  a  man  and  a  woman, 
—  young,  free,  respecting  each  other's  freedom,  do- 
ing our  work  apart,  with  a  sacred  trust  to  share.   It 

182 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

was  a  dream  worth  dreaming.  All  that  goes  into  the 
discard.  .  .  .  Then,  closer  to  the  soul  of  things  as  I 
thought  we  both  felt  it,  —  do  you  remember  how  I 
took  you  into  my  *  garden '  ?  (was  it  only  last  night  I ) 
and  you  said,  '  Keep  me  in  your  garden,'  and  if  I 
lost  my  dreams  again,  my  dreams  of  her,  we  would 
come  out  here  —  for  our  *  souls'  rest'  ...  I  hope 
never  to  see  this  place  again,  —  never  to  think  of 
the  time  that  seemed  so  blessed  I  I  thought  myself 
blest  —  safe,  at  least,  from  insult  and  desecration. 
All  that  I  see  now  in  my  garden  is  the  man  I  took 
in  there  and  showed  my  secret  paths  and  the  places 
of  the  spirit  they  led  to ;  and  suddenly  that  man  be- 
came as  one  mad,  and  trod  on  all  my  flowers  and 
tore  up  my  precious  memories  and  trampled  the 
garden  of  my  heart  into  one  wild  ruin  and  went  out- 
side and  laughed  I  That  is  what  you  have  done  — 
to  her,  to  me,  to  us  both,  and  to  yourself  as  I  thought 
I  knew  you.  Can  you  understand  that  when  you 
call  a  thing  like  this  a  *  blunder '  you  really  drive  me 
mad!" 

His  chest  lifted  hard  and  slow.  He  got  upon  his 
feet  heavily  like  an  old  man.  ..."  And  now,"  he 
said,  **  if  this  is  reasoning  together  calmly,  let  us 
calmly  curse  and  swear  I  You  have  called  me  a  four- 
footed  beast,  and  I  feel  as  if  a  delicate  fiend  in  hell 
had  been  sorting  me,  with  fine  pincers.  If  you  think 
there 's  any  part  of  me  you  could  have  missed,  go  on 
—  don't  spare  me.    I  am  the  damned." 

He  stood  a  moment  as  if  literally  awaiting  my 
next  experiment  —  he  gave  me  plenty  of  time  —  and 

183 


EDITH  BONHAM 

then  he  walked  away.  After  a  silence  that  might 
have  been  long  or  short  —  it  was  something  of  a 
blank  to  me  —  I  heard  the  clink  of  spurs  and  his 
horse's  shuffling  tread  following  at  a  walk,  then  a 
pause  at  the  hitching-post.  I  could  see  him  stroll  on 
a  little  way  till  he  stood  looking  off  where  the  road 
drops  down  the  bluff.  It  was  a  night  clear,  dark, 
marvelous  in  stars.  He  looked  up  at  those  stars. 
The  moon  was  not  yet  risen.  I  shivered  all  over, 
but  I  could  not  weep  —  not  though  I  had  slain  a 
human  heart  in  the  torment  of  my  own. 

His  voice  when  he  spoke  was  as  quiet  as  the 
night.  "  Forgive  me :  I  had  forgotten  your  tele- 
gram.  You  would  like  to  acknowledge  it  ?  " 

And  I  had  forgotten  that  acknowledgment  I  It 
would  have  to  be  dictated,  and  I  could  not  frame  the 
words  as  he  stood  there  waiting.  He  seemed  to  see 
my  difficulty. 

"  Give  me  your  sister's  address  and  let  me  send 
your  answer.  She  knows  where  you  are,  doesn't 
she  —  how  you  are  situated  out  here?" 

I  had  written  her  once  from  the  mesa.  As  my  let- 
ters had  to  be  disinfected,  I  wrote  but  few  and  they 
had  all  passed  through  his  hands.  "  She  will  under- 
stand," I  said,  and  thanked  him. 

He  paused.  "You  have  some  hard  daj^'S  before 
you.  Breaking  up  a  quarantine  is  no  easy  job  for 
one  woman  alone.  Grant  will  bring  you  out  the 
stufE  you  need  for  the  last  day ;  have  you  got  your 
list  ready?" 

I  said  the  doctor  had  it,  the  medical  part  "But" 
184 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

—  I  was  forced  to  go  on  —  "  will  you  take  down  the 
things  we  shall  need  to  go  back  in,  Phoebe  and  I  ? 
Mrs.  Lavinus  will  get  them  ready."  He  stood  there 
and  wrote  to  my  dictation,  in  all  the  terrible  inti- 
macy of  our  estrangement,  every  personal  article  we 
should  need  to  wear :  —  I  would  sooner  have  gone 
back  wrapped  in  a  blanket.  The  light  of  the  window 
where  he  stood  writing  showed  the  short  hair  blown 
boyishly  across  his  forehead,  and  his  features  drawn, 
whitened,  aged  in  an  hour. 

"You  will  remember  —  about  Phoebe?"  I  said. 

"  I  shall  be  apt  to  remember  Phoebe  —  among 
other  things,"  he  answered,  without  looking  at  me, 
shoving  his  notebook  in  his  pocket. 

"But  it's  not  remembering  in  the  right  way  if  you 
don't  come  to  see  her.  She  has  been  promised,"  I 
kept  harping.  "  How  can  I  explain  your  absence  if 
it  goes  on  ?  " 

"Nothing  can  be  explained,"  he  said.  "As  for 
what  you  expect  of  me,  is  n't  it  a  little  unreasonable  ? 
You  cast  me  into  the  pit,  then  you  tell  me  I  must 
come  and  play  with  Phoebe.  .  .  .  Dick  will  be  out 
to-morrow,  if  I  can  get  hold  of  him.  I  shall  not  see 
you  probably  for  some  time.    Phoebe  will  not  suffer ; 

—  she  loves  you  now,  as  you  say.  She  must  learn 
to  do  without  what  was  her  father." 

It  was  a  great  surprise  when  he  came  again  next 
night.  I  wished,  for  Phoebe's  sake,  I  could  have 
known  that  he  was  coming.  There  had  been  a  sad 
time  over  this  second  disappointment.  She  had  cried 
herself  to  sleep  because  I  could  make  no  promises  for 

185 


EDITH  BONHAM 

the  future  either.  She  was  quick  to  feel  the  change 
in  my  own  spirits  which,  for  utter  weariness,  I  could 
not  hide. 

I  don't  know  why  he  came  so  late  and  cheated 
Phcebe,  unless  he  dreaded  another  evening  with  me. 
There  must  have  been  some  strong  practical  reason 
for  his  coming  at  all. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  to  speak  to  me :  I  'm  not  a 
man  " —  He  addressed  me  in  an  offhand  way — **I  'm 
what 's  left  of  a  man  who  died  here  last  night,  by  his 
own  hand." 

I  retorted  hotly,  "  Considering  what  did  happen 
here  last  night,  I  should  think  we  might  use  plain 
English.  Do  we  need  metaphors?" 

"I  don't — this  is  your  language  I  am  trying  to 
talk." 

I  saw  what  had  happened,  for  much  the  same  thing 
had  happened  to  me.  We  had  both  said  impossible 
things  and  recoiled  from  them  without  being  really 
repentant.  His  wrath  (and  mine)  had  settled  on  its 
lees.  This  was  the  clear  wine  of  resentment  iced  with 
sarcasm  that  he  offered  me.  I  did  n't  believe  he  was 
the  man  to  use  sarcasm  as  a  habit  to  a  woman,  a 
child,  a  servant,  or  a  dog,  because  none  of  us  will 
bear  it.  He  used  it  only  to  finish  all  chance  of  natural 
words  between  us  in  the  forthcoming  interview,  which 
he  would  n't  bear.  As  soon  as  he  began  upon  our 
business  he  was  himself,  only  a  rather  more  familiar, 
careless  self,  as  if  I  had  broken  some  delicate  bond  of 
restraint,  set  free  the  man  as  a  man  talks  to  anybody 
—  to  another  man.    But  perhaps  this  also  was  studied. 

i86 


THE  WATCH  ON  THE  MESA 

"  Dick  is  n't  able  to  come  out.  He 's  laid  up  for 
a  while.  He 's  at  the  house.  Mrs.  Lavinus  is  taking 
care  of  him,  for  his  sins.  Yet  she 's  not  so  bad  these 
days.'' 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  Is  he  ill  ?  "  I  asked, 
thinking  of  contagion. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  an  accident  —  with  a  pistol.  Dick 's 
rather  an  ass." 

*'  Is  he?— with  pistols  I " 

"  It  was  pistols  this  time,  or  a  pistol.  He  '11  soon 
be  out  again.  I  hope  you  won't  mind  a  little  crowd- 
ing ?  He 's  in  the  sitting-room  downstairs." 

"  Has  Mrs.  Lavinus  time  to  do  justice  to  the  baby 
and  Dick  too?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  there 's  heaps  of  work  in  the  old  girl 
if  you  know  how  to  get  it  out.  Davenport  manages 
her.  .  .  .  Well,  I  '11  take  myself  off,  and  to-morrow 
it  won't  be  Dick ;  but  don't  promise  Phoebe  any  visits. 
Thursday  I  '11  be  out  to  move  you  in ;  the  carriage 
has  been  fumigated.  You  must  get  busy  early  in  the 
morning,  by  daybreak  —  to  avoid  the  heat,  though 
you  can't !  Plan  it  so  you  can  do  your  heavy  work 
before  you  begin  caulking  doors  and  windows. 
You  '11  stifle  in  the  last  hole  ! " 

"  I  wish  I  could  die  in  the  last  hole  I  What  are  we 
to  do  about  Phoebe?  I'll  go  anywhere,"  I  prayed, — 
"  do  anything  you  say  —  except  leave  her  altogether. 
But  she  must  see  you  I  She  '11  pine  away  I  Two  dis- 
appearances in  her  life  —  Will  you  tell  me  what  I 
can  do  1 " 


187 


EDITH  BONHAM 

"  Do  what  you  are  doing,  Edith.  No  one  could  do 
more.  Only  just  please  leave  this  other  thing  alone. 
It 's  there  1  It  can't  be  helped.  But  we  can  try  to  keep 


PART   IV 
TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 


XVIII 

We  were  moved,  but  we  could  not  know  for  a  few 
days  yet  if  our  breaking-up  had  been  perfect.  The 
little  boy,  whom  we  watched  in  fear,  remained  very 
well. 

Dick's  wound  was  progressing  also.  It  had  not 
been  serious  enough  to  keep  him  in  bed,  still  it  must 
have  been  painful,  and  painful  to  his  feelings  as  well, 
of  a  young  man  supposed  to  be  not  unacquainted 
with  firearms.  One  saw  that  he  did  not  care  to  be 
questioned  about  it.  He  roamed  the  house  and 
grounds,  bored  and  pale  and  looking  handsomer 
than  ever  in  his  soft-collared  shirts  and  white  trousers 
and  his  left  arm  in  a  sling.  Phoebe  returned  with  joy 
to  her  "Dick"  when  she  found  him  again  on  my 
bureau.  She  was  much  interested  in  the  real  Dick's 
bandages  and  must  have  the  same  for  Hermes,  arm- 
less as  he  was.  She  hung  a  doll's  petticoat  around 
his  shoulders  after  the  manner  of  Dick's  coat  with 
one  sleeve  tucked  in. 

The  baby  slept  out  of  doors  now,  in  his  carriage,  or 
in  the  jalousied  end  of  the  piazza.  Mrs.  Lavinus  seated 
beside  him,  mending  whatever  she  could  be  trusted 
to  mend  very  badly,  looked  on  at  Phoebe's  play  like 
a  large  bird  of  the  wading  species  invited  to  a  feast 
of  wood- warblers.  Dick  and  I  made  our  little  jokes 
about  her:  we  called  her  the  "Listening  Crane" 

191 


EDITH  BONHAM 

(though  that  was  not  her  figure),  and  undoubtedly 
she  listened.  Dick  and  I  were  supposed  to  be  play- 
ing an  older  game.  But  Dick's  heart  was  in  the  right 
place ;  he  could  hardly  have  given  it  Mrs.  Lavinus, 
my  only  rival  on  the  premises.  It  was  as  certain  as 
June  is  June  that  he  must  make  love  to  somebody. 
Mrs.  Lavinus,  I  think,  had  begun  to  like  me ;  she  took 
some  trouble,  at  least,  to  warn  me  not  to  waste  the 
flower  of  my  days  on  a  youth,  however  handsome 
and  pleasant,  who  could  n't  have  more  than  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  a  month  and  sent  fifty  of  it  home  I  Mrs. 
Lavinus  always  seemed  to  be  posted  as  to  the  main 
chance.  In  the  midst  of  all  this,  I  went  about  feeling 
at  times  like  a  gibbering  ghost,  at  other  times  jeering 
at  my  own  ghost  for  retaining  a  preposterous  and 
carnal  interest  in  the  fresh  fruit  and  vegetables  which 
now  loaded  our  table.  Hing,  won  over  completely 
by  that  six  weeks  on  the  mesa,  hovered  over  me  and 
my  appetite  (which  really  needed  no  petting)  like  a 
mother  with  an  only  child.  His  queer,  high-pitched 
tones  fairly  coo-ooed  when  he  spoke  to  me. 

But  Phoebe's  delight  in  the  freedom  of  a  whole 
yard,  in  the  old  places  recovered  which  meant  home, 
in  the  cheerful  human  noises  of  the  house  all  day,  in 
the  green  grass  and  the  flowers  and  the  street-pass- 
ing outside  our  gate  — all  this  was  pure  joy  to  watch, 
and  a  relief  I  had  not  counted  on.  For  I  saw  that  she 
did  not  pine  —  at  least  not  yet.  No  memories  of  my 
own  poisoned  past  could  affect  the  triumph  and  satis- 
faction I  might  now  give  way  to :  Phoebe  in  perfect 
health,  nay,  even  better  she  seemed  than  before  her 

192 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

fever,  and  the  little  boy  past  all  danger  of  taking 
it  from  us.  We  had  not  brought  back  a  single 
germ. 

"You're  a  wonder!"  Mrs.  Lavinus  pronounced 
one  day.  She  had  strolled  in  her  free  fashion  into  my 
bedroom  while  I  was  doing  my  hair,  the  door  being 
open  for  the  draught.  The  sun  was  in  the  west  just 
at  supper-time,  shining  through  my  closed  curtains, 
and  I,  in  the  thinnest  wrapper  I  possessed,  was 
melting  I 

"Your  hair  looks  kind  o'  dry  and  your  skin's 
browner,  and  I  guess  your  hands  are  coarsened  up 
some  with  those  dissyfectants,  but  you  might  be  a 
girl  of  twenty  as  you  stand  there  I  And  I  know  you 
must  have  done  some  work  in  them  six  weeks  you 
been  away.  Just  how  old  be  you,  if  you  don't  mind 
me  askin'  ?  " 

I  told  her  my  age.  —  "Twenty-seven!  and  I  set 
you  down  for  twenty-four  at  the  outside.  Well ;  I 
admire  your  not  hidin'  it.  You  don't  need  to  — 
you  're  a  good  looker.  Dark  folks  last  longer  than 
fair  ones,  and  you  got  the  sort  of  features  you  can 
do  anything  with  —  it  don't  matter  how  you  wear 
your  hair ;  I  've  seen  you  all  ways  and  I  never  see 
you  look  plain.  That's  the  truth." 

I  dashed  into  my  closet  for  a  dress,  and  the  wrap- 
per being  off,  Mrs.  Lavinus  (who  was  in  her  way  a 
student  of  how  the  Lord  has  made  us,  sick  or  well) 
inspected  my  arms  and  shoulders.  "  Well ;  you  're  a 
picture  at  any  age !  You  don't  need  to  worry,  unless 
you're  thinkin'  of  a  man  younger  than  yourself. 

193 


EDITH  BONHAM 

Take  my  advice  and  hold  on  for  a  rise  as  the  saying 
is.  You  might  not  have  to  wait  so  long!" 

I  was  hurrying  as  fast  as  I  could,  but  her  tongue 
pursued  me. 

"Landl  don't  I  know  'em?  —  them  widowers! 
I 've  seen  all  kinds.  There's  one  kind  —  you  can't 
blame  'em,  let  'em  marry  as  soon  as  they  would. 
They  just  got  to  !  Take  a  man  with  his  livin'  to  earn, 
gettin'  up  to  work  at  six  o'clock  and  no  fire  made 
and  no  breakfast  got  and  a  passel  of  young  ones 
bawlin'  to  be  dressed  and  fed  —  they  can't  aflord  to 
hire  help.  I  've  helped  'em  out  myself  for  my  keep, 
and  poor  keep  it  was,  and  picked  out  a  wife  for  'em 
and  'most  done  the  courtin' —  But  there's  others 
with  no  excuse  acts  just  as  common.  And  there's 
the  sly  kind,  awful  solemn  and  indifferent,  but  they  're 
thinkin'  just  the  same.  There 's  a  mighty  difference 
between  live  folks  and  dead  folks.  Unless  you  shoot  a 
man  and  bury  him  with  his  wife,  he  '11  sure  be  look- 
in'  out  for  another  one.  They  're  made  that  way.  .  .  . 
And,  my  land !  if  you  could  see  what  some  men  '11 
do  to  their  wives  when  they  're  livin'  you  would  n't 
worry  about  the  wives  that 's  dead.  No ;  there 's  many 
a  woman  envies  them  that 's  underground  for  good, 
and  wishes  number  two  was  in  their  place." 

"Mrs.  Lavinus,"  I  broke  in  —  I  could  n't  leave  her 
till  I  was  dressed  and  everything  I  needed  to  com- 
plete my  dress  seemed  to  have  hidden  itself  in  places 
beyond  discovery ;  —  "  tell  me  about  Mrs.  Pettyjohn  ? 
Isn't  she  married  yet?" 

"  That  one ! "  Mrs.  Lavinus  threw  up  her  hands  and 
194 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

brought  them  down  one  on  each  broad  knee.  "  She  's 
as  much  married  as  she  ever  was  and  no  more  and 
don't  need  to  be.  The  French  fellow  did  n't  show  up 
and  May  went  past  and  it  got  to  be  June  and  she 
was  in  a  fever  and  mortified  to  death,  and  who  should 
come  along  but  Pettyjohn  all  dressed  up  lookin'  like 
a  sport.  He  's  got  hold  of  something  in  the  minin* 
way  where  other  folks  puts  up  the  money.  They've 
went  ofi  camping  on  their  second  honeymoon  as 
good  as  the  first  one.  She  lived  with  him  six  years 
contented  enough  till  that  money  was  left  her  and  she 
went  traveling  and  met  the  other  one  —  I  don't  mean 
to  say  there  wa'n't  no  interval,  for  there  was  —  but 
nothing  to  hurt  her  going  off  with  Pettyjohn  and  no 
ceremony  about  it.  And  did  n't  need  to  be  1  That 's 
what  the  Catholics  was  so  mad  about.  And  they 
did  n't  like  the  looks  of  you  bein'  hand  and  glove 
with  her  as  she  claimed  —  wanting  to  lend  her  this 
house  to  be  married  in,  the  priest's  house.  Married  I 
Everybody  knew,  if  Pettyjohn  should  come  along  in 
time  with  a  good  job,  she  'd  be  willing  to  help  him 
spend  his  pay.  As  for  ker  money  that  she  says  he 
threw  away  —  't  was  she  gave  it  to  him  and  was  as 
wild  as  he  was  to  put  it  into  every  wild-cat  scheme 
they  heard  of.  This  here  's  a  pretty  poor  lookout  they 
got  now,  some  thinks,  but  it  '11  last,  likely,  till  snow 
falls  in  the  mountains,  which  is  where  they  've  went.'' 
I  had  listened  with  patience  this  time,  and  I  went 
downstairs  reflecting  on  a  few  things ;  for  one,  how 
it  is  that  your  very  thoughts  are  known  to  the  women 
in  the  san^e  house  with  you,  I  had  never  mentioned 

i?5 


EDITH  BONHAM 

Mrs.  Pettyjohn^s  solicitations,  nor  my  wish  that  they 
might  be  granted.  She,  of  course,  had  boasted  pre- 
maturely and  made  much  of  our  few  talks,  as  she  had 
to  me  of  her  intimacy  with  Nanny.  In  any  case  my 
character  in  Catholic  circles,  which  included  Noreen's 
respectable  parents,  must  have  suffered. 

I  had  not  been  down  to  the  end  of  the  yard,  but 
now  I  went  with  a  sense  of  relief.  The  fence  was 
gone ;  the  bamboo  waved  free,  with  a  space  of  light 
beyond.  There  were  no  more  fowls,  and  no  more 
flowers.  A  stained  flannel  shirt  and  a  pair  of  blue 
overalls  hung  on  the  clothes-line,  property  of  our  new 
chore-man,  washed  by  himself.  He  lived  in  the  little 
house  now,  one  of  the  lone  birds  of  the  frontier  who 
pass  for  bachelors.  I  took  an  inhuman  satisfaction  in 
his  freedom  from  every  visible  member  of  my  sex, 
and  from  all  evidences  of  the  presence  of  one  of  them 
inside  our  bounds.  Dick  told  me  that  a  horse  for  my 
use  would  be  kept  in  the  stable  across  the  lane  be- 
tween us  and  a  small  meadow  where  he  was  now  at 
grass  with  no  shoes  on.  It  sounded  like  a  home  on  a 
basis  of  security  and  comfort.  I  knew  it  was  all  false. 
But  it  was  **  playing  the  game." 

One  day,  in  the  afternoon,  a  man  in  working-clothes 
came  to  the  front  door  and  said  he  had  a  piano  out- 
side which  Mr.  Maclay  had  ordered  sent  up  to  the 
house,  and  asked  where  it  should  go.  The  dray  stood 
backed  to  the  front  door  and  the  house  was  in  the  con- 
fusion four  men  and  a  piano  can  make  in  a  small 
passageway,  when  another  sort  of  vehicle  drove  up 
with  a  spanking  team  of  well-kept  mules  before  it.  I 

196 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

knew  it  as  the  ambulance  from  the  Post  in  which 
the  officers'  ladies  went  on  calls  and  errands  to  town. 
A  smart  orderly  opened  the  gate  of  the  poplars  ior  a 
lady,  who  entered  as  if  she  might  be  the  first  lady  of 
the  land,  as  she  was  the  first  lady  at  the  Post,  Mrs. 
Forth,  wife  of  the  colonel  in  command.  Not  that  she 
assumed  it  —  she  simply  looked  it  in  a  frank  Ameri- 
can way,  perhaps  a  Western  way,  which  was  very 
good-natured  and  a  trifle  humorous. 

I  perceived  as  she  came  up  the  walk  that  the  world, 
of  dress,  was  with  us.  She  smiled  as  if  we  had  always 
met  in  this  way,  with  a  piano  and  four  perspiring 
men  with  hats  on  the  backs  of  their  heads  (one  had 
taken  his  off  and  laid  it  on  the  piano)  blocking  our 
entrance. 

"  This  does  n't  look  well  for  my  mission,"  she  re- 
marked, after  a  moment,  indicating  the  piano.  She 
met  my  eyes  with  an  air  of  confidential  mystery. 

"Really?  —  a  mission?"  I  asked.  "And  I  hoped 
you  had  come  to  see  me." 

"  Oh,  I  have.  But  I  've  brought  my  mission,  or  com- 
mission, from  your  aunt  in  New  York.  You  are  not 
too  busy  —  with  pianos  and  things  —  to  have  a  long 
talk  with  a  perfect  stranger,  all  about  your  own 
affairs!" 

Having  included  among  our  visitors  at  the  studio 
some  of  the  queerest  as  well  as  cleverest  persons  in 
the  city,  as  well  as  other  cities,  I  was  prepared  to 
take  this  lady  and  her  "  mission "  just  as  they  had 
happened  to  come,  and  to  be  very  much  entertained. 

"How nice  that  we  can  talk  outdoors,"  she  began, 
197 


EDITH  BONHAM 

as  we  strolled  forth  into  the  shade.  My  "aunt  in  New 
York"  was  certainly  the  last  person  I  should  have 
expected  an  introduction  from  to  a  lady  in  Idaho, 
but  army  people  are  from  everywhere.  If  she  meant 
Aunt  Essie,  I  felt  sure  of  a  lively  talk  before  we  got 
far  into  that  topic. 

"  This  is  a  pretty  place."  She  looked  around  from 
the  bench  where  we  sat  under  our  deepest  trees.  "  I  've 
often  stared  in  as  we  passed.  It 's  a  regret  to  me  now 
that  I  did — pass;  that  I  was  lazy  about  coming  in. 
We  've  been  stationed  here  a  long  time.  When  we 
first  came  your  friend,  Mrs.  Maclay,  had  gone  out  to 
that  dry  ranch  where  you  were  in  your  quarantine. 
She  had  lived  a  good  deal  in  the  country,  had  n't  she? 
The  town,  I  think,  had  been  rather  too  much  for  her 
—  the  flood  of  first  calls  in  their  friendly,  pioneer  fash- 
ion, perhaps.  We  all  expect  to  go  through  with  it. 
By  the  time  Mrs.  Maclay  came  back  to  town,  the  feel- 
ing had  gone  round  that  she  did  not  care  for  calls,  or 
at  least  she  did  not  return  them  always.  She  had 
good  reasons,  no  doubt.  .  .  .  Now,  I  'm  going  to 
talk  to  you  as  if  I  had  known  you  all  my  life  I  I  've 
heard  you  talked  about  in  New  York  —  I've  been 
there  all  winter,  you  know  —  till  I  feel  that  I  do  know 
something  about  you." 

**  I  don't  know  that  that  follows,"  I  could  n't  help 
saying.  **  It  depends  on  who  does  the  talking." 

"There's  a  great  disturbance  about  you  among 
your  relatives,  and  I  think  there  would  be  more  if  they 
knew  all  that  I've  heard  since  I  came  back — from 
all  sorts  and  conditions!  Dr.  Davenport,  of  course, 

198 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

speaks  the  truth.  I  Ve  never  heard  him  say  so  much 
about  any  human  being  in  my  life  as  he  says  about 
your  six  weeks'  campaign  on  the  mesa.  He  ought  to 
know !  The  other  talkers  we  '11  leave  till  later.  I  may 
be  frank?'' 

**  Oh,  frank  I  I  have  n't  listened  to  a  woman's  frank- 
ness —  to  a  woman  who  knew  how  to  be  frank  — 
I've  forgotten  what  it  is." 

She  detected  my  involuntary  passion  of  emphasis ; 
the  note  of  estrangement  from  one's  sex  and  kind. 
"*  Well ;  there  are  certainly  several  sorts  of  women's 
frankness.  As  for  men  —  they  're  poor,  deprived  crea- 
tures. They  go  about  halfway  with  their  frankness, 
which  is  n't  half  bad  of  its  kind.  But  they  get  mud- 
dled and  we  have  to  guess  the  rest.  And  we  are  sure 
to  guess  wrong.  I  'm  going  all  the  way  with  you  I 
May  I  even  speak  of  your  friend  —  ?  You  have  stepped 
into  the  same  tide  of  raw  brute  circumstance  that  she 
met  out  here.  The  West  is  tragedy  to  some  women. 
We  must  n't  let  it  be  tragedy  to  you,  too !  Mrs.  Maclay, 
I  imagine,  was  very,  strong,  very  self-centered,  very 
indifferent,  perhaps,  —  where  I  'm  not  sure  that  we 
who  look  on  should  allow  you  to  be  indifferent.  I  am 
here  to  open  your  eyes  to  a  point  of  view  you  may 
have  met  in  second-rate  novels  if  you  ever  read  them, 
or  third-rate  plays.  But  here  it  is  genuine  and  honest 
and  it  makes  in  one  way  for  good  citizenship.  We  've 
no  classes,  but  we  have  public  opinion  chopped  out 
to  fit  the  masses,  and  which  makes  no  distinctions  in 
individual  cases.  I  don't  know  very  well  what  I  'm 
talking  about,  so  I  don't  expect  you  to.  .  ,  .  But,  to 

199 


EDITH  BONHAM 

illustrate :  Mrs.  Maclay  was  called  *  peculiar.'  I  sup- 
pose she  was  about  as  peculiar  as  you  are,  or  as  we 
are  up  at  the  Post.  But  we  are  a  family  by  ourselves ; 
we  talk  about  one  another,  but  we  don't  talk  outside, 
and  outside  talk  does  n't  affect  us. 

*'  I  've  come  to  ask  you,  first,  in  the  name  of  your 
relatives,  to  go  back  to  New  York.  And  if  you  won't 
do  that,  to  come  into  our  family  —  our  little  army- 
family,  and  let  us  environ  you.  You  've  been  at  the 
mercy  of  the  town  and  the  town-talk  long  enough." 

"  But  the  town  knows  nothing  about  me  I " 

"That's  just  the  point — except  through  your 
servants.  We  '11  come  to  that  presently.  No :  we  '11 
come  to  it  now  I  You  must  get  rid  of  that  dreadful 
old  woman  you  have  here.  She  has  simply  sowed 
the  whole  place  with  stories  about  you.  You  will 
never  get  any  decent  help  while  she  is  in  the  house, 
and  she  proposes  to  stay,  you  may  be  sure.  That  is 
the  object  of  the  stories  —  to  frighten  everybody  else 
away.  She 's  a  little  scared  just  now  by  the  shooting, 
and  she  may  keep  still  after  this.  But  the  mischief  is 
done." 

"I  don't  understand  —  what  shooting?  You  don't 
mean  Dick  Grant's  accident?" 

"  Accident !  "  she  cried.  "  Do  you  mean  no  one  has 
told  you?  Well,  well  I"  She  colored  a  little  —  *'! 
suppose  I  've  put  my  foot  in  it  now  !  You  did  n't  get 
the  papers  at  your  ranch?  Dick,  of  course,  isn't 
boasting  —  and  Douglas  Maclay  is  pretty  tired  of 
Dick  just  now.  You  see  I  know  them  both.  But  the 
old  person  of  the  bibulous  name  —  hasn't  she  ex- 

200 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

ploded  with  it  ?  Well ;  it 's  a  man's  way,  the  whole 
of  it.  To  set  you  in  a  place  where  you  're  exposed  to 
affairs  like  that  and  say  it  is  n't  so  1  And  try  to  per- 
suade you  that  you  're  as  safe  and  protected  as  if  you 
were  in  your  aunt's  house  in  New  York  1" 

**  I  've  not  been  in  my  aunt's  house  in  two  years," 
I  cried  under  this  fire  of  frankness.  "And  I  've  never 
been  *safe'  in  New  York,  if  you  mean  safe  from  gos- 
sip. But  shooting  is  another  matter.  Do  you  mean 
that  some  one  shot  Dick?" 

"  I  do  —  two  days  after  I  spoke  to  Douglas  Maclay 
about  you  —  well,  as  frankly  as  I  'm  speaking  now." 

"I  hope  not." 

We  gazed  at  each  other  — 

"  I  am  an  old  friend  of  his,"  she  answered  my  look. 
**  And  I  could  n't  get  at  you,  and  my  *  mission '  seemed 
rather  pressing  just  then.  I  had  been  hearing  the 
stories,  and  that  nobody  was  calling  on  you  —  in 
a  town  like  this  I  But  when  I  heard  that  Douglas 
Maclay  had  taken  you  out  there  to  his  ranch  across 
the  river  and  was  riding  out  every  evening  —  " 

"  He  did  n't,  Mrs.  Forth  I  It  was  Dr.  Davenport's 
orders  that  we  should  go,  arranged  before  Mr.  Maclay 
came  home." 

**  Then  the  doctor  ought  to  be  around  to  say  so  I 
It  need  n't  be  said  to  me.  The  male  gossips  in  the 
saloons  here  never  heard  of  a  six  weeks'  quarantine 
for  anything.  They  laugh  I  Can't  you  see  ?  " 

**  I  refuse  to  see.  I  see  your  '  point  of  view,'  of 
course,  but  what  has  it  to  do  with  me  more  than  with 
you?" 

20I 


EDITH  BONHAM 

"  Because  your  environment  out  here  consists  of 
two  men,  very  nice  fellows,  but  there 's  no  special 
brand  on  them  to  the  town.  They  can't  protect  you. 
It 's  just  a  character  novel  of  the  plains,  and  we  are 
the  characters.  And  a  dangerous  mixture  we  are.  I 
sent  for  Douglas  Maclay  and  took  more  liberties 
with  him  in  ten  minutes  —  than  I  ever  shall  again  if 
we  both  live  long.  I  informed  him  what  he  had  done. 
I  told  him  your  relatives  in  New  York  were  in  a  state 
of  mind  about  you  and  that  I  should  do  my  best  to 
send  you  home,  and  that  he  must  resign  you  —  in 
view  of  what  —  of  what  I  told  him.  And  meantime 
he  must  do  what  he  could  to  change  things  —  " 

"  Please,  one  moment,  Mrs.  Forth.  Did  you  meet 
my  sister  in  New  York,  Mrs.  Landreth  ?  You  have  n't 
spoken  of  the  one  relative  there  who  does  know  all 
about  me  and  is  not  asking  me  to  come  home.  Be- 
cause she  knows  why  I  came  and  that  I  must  stay, 
or  do  what  would  be  worse  than  anything  the  town 
can  say  of  me,  from  our  point  of  view  —  which,  after 
all,  is  the  one  we  have  to  live  by.  In  the  army  you 
don't  believe  in  desertion,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  know  you  had  a  sister  in  New  York," 
said  Mrs.  Forth,  dropping  her  voice  and  looking 
puzzled.  "I  saw  a  good  deal  of  your  aunt,  Mrs. 
Charles  Braisted,  a  delightful  woman  — talk  of  frank- 
ness I " 

"  But  I  hope  you  don't  mean  to  add  her  frankness 
to  the  kind  we  have  out  here  —  that  is,  when  I  'm 
under  discussion,  as  I  seem  to  have  been." 

"Don't  you  like  her?" 

202 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

"  Of  course  I  like  her.  But  I  don't  ever  do  any- 
thing she  says.  We  've  always  been  her  despair,  my 
sister  and  I.  She  disapproves  of  everything  we  do 
without  knowing  why  we  do  it  or  being  able  to  tell  us 
what  else  we  could  do  in  our  circumstances,  which 
are  not  the  same  as  hers.  But  of  course  she  's  de- 
lightful, and  if  we  were  n't  her  nieces  she  would  think 
we  were  delightful  too.  Her  idea  for  me  is  to  live 
with  her  as  her  secretary  —  she  would  call  it  that. 
What  she  wants  is  to  see  me  dressed  in  a  certain 
way  and  married  to  some  one  rich.  There  's  frank- 
ness ! " 

**  And  I  thank  you  for  it  I  You  're  very  generous  to 
pay  me  in  that  way.  For  of  course  I  'm  horribly  scared. 
But  I  promised,  you  know,  —  I  promised  your  aunt 
I  would  try.  She  seemed  to  think  letters  could  do 
nothing  compared  to  the  spoken  word." 

**  Aunt  Essie's  letters  could  n't,  for  she  never  writes 
any.  Anything  she  can't  telegraph,  or  delegate  to 
another's  words,  goes  by  default.  I  simply  mention 
it  as  one  of  her  sides  —  she  has  a  great  many." 

Mrs.  Forth  responded  to  my  smile  rather  absently, 
and  I  saw  we  were  done  with  **  my  aunt."  Something 
else  lay  back  of  my  words,  and,  I  fancied,  something 
else  was  in  the  back  of  her  mind.  She  asked  me  — 
in  that  manner  of  thinking  aside — if  I  was  sure  I 
could  forgive  her  meddling  with  my  affairs  ?  I  said 
—  also  thinking  aside  —  that  I  minded  nothing,  only 
the  talk,  the  talk  !  Not  so  much  the  talk  of  the  West, 
which  was  a  wild  and  picturesque  travesty  of  the 
truth,  as  the  talk  of  the  East  that  came  so  cleverly 

203 


EDITH  BONHAM 

near  it  as  to  be  almost  mistaken  for  it  —  by  those  who 
talked.  That  had  been  poor  papa's  style  of  analysis : 
it  amused,  but  it  did  not  help  to  enlighten. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Forth,  "I  've  offered  my  creden- 
tials, and  you  won't  receive  me  as  a  special  envoy 
from  anybody  I " 

"Only  yourself.  Come  as  your  own  envoy  and 
come  often.  Oh,  do  come !  This  has  been  a  most  illu- 
minating talk ! " 

I  certainly  was  excited,  and  she  was  too  keen  not 
to  have  noted  how  little  the  main  object  of  her  visit 
seemed  to  afEect  me,  compared  to  some  obscure  re- 
lation it  perhaps  bore  to  something  deeper  in  my 
mind  than  the  disturbance  among  my  relatives  or  the 
gossip  of  the  town.  I  knew  she  was  dying  of  curi- 
osity as  to  what  had  happened  out  on  the  mesa,  if 
she  were  not  in  her  own  conscience  guilty  therefor. 

"  But  I  want  to  know  more  about  Dick  Grant."  I  re- 
turned to  the  safer  topic,  **  What  has  he  been  doing 
in  my  affairs  ?  I  'm  getting  puffed  up  with  all  this  at- 
tention of  the  town  —  after  this  I  shall  never  talk 
of  anything  but  myself." 

"  Dick  only  did  the  chivalrous  thing.  He  knocked 
a  man  down  for  saying  disrespectful  things  about 
you  and  a  friend  of  yours  in  a  *  public  place.*  You 
observed,  coming  over  on  the  Oregon  Short  Line,  how 
'public'  we  are!  This  thing  might  possibly  get  into 
a  Salt  Lake  paper  I  The  man  was  one  of  the  kind 
who  *  carry  a  gun.'  He  used  it  —  that 's  all.  I  don't 
know  that  he  meant  to  kill  Dick,  but  that 's  immate- 
rial —  Dick  will  not  appear  against  him." 

204 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

"  I  wish  Dick  had  left  the  man  alone.  I  don't  won- 
der Mr.  Maclay  is  tired  of  him !  Is  it  really  possible 
we  are  expected  to  take  that  point  of  view  into 
account  ? " 

**  Mrs.  Maclay  felt  as  you  do,  my  dear.  As  her 
friend  —  forgive  me  —  but  you  step  into  her  disfavor 
with  the  town.  They  are  prepared  to  find  you  *  pecu- 
liar '  too.  She  had  no  Mrs.  Lavinus  ;  but  you  may  be 
sure  there  was  talk  —  more  than  I  could  have  heard 

—  when  she  went  out  there  and  lived  alone  with  her 
men  and  her  maids  like  Marianna  in  the  South. 
Marianna  did  n't  have  any  maids,  did  she  ?  Perhaps 
Mrs.  Maclay  did  n't  —  It 's  not  understood  here  why 
anybody  should  want  to  shake  the  dust  of  this  pretty 
little  town  ofE  their  feet  and  go  and  live  with  jack- 
rabbits.  There's  no  real  love  of  the  country  when 
it's  as  big  as  this.  The  poor  lone  humans  have 
had  all  the  solitude  they  will  ever  want.  It 's  rather 
nice  and  kind  of  them.  I  'm  afraid  you  're  not  very 
kind?" 

''Only  to  jack-rabbits,"  I  said.  "I'm  a  sister  to 
jack-rabbits  —  and  winged  ants." 

**  j^^^  Mrs.  Maclay  peculiar?"  Mrs.  Forth  looked 
at  me  as  if  slightly  in  doubt  whether  we  had  not  both 
been  a  little  "touched,"  according  to  the  popular 
understanding. 

I  agreed  that  she  was  peculiar,  in  a  certain  attitude 
of  mind.  She  had  it  very  strongly  without  knowing  it 

—  it  was  a  family  attitude  and  she  had  not  traveled 
enough  to  be  able  to  see  her  own  people.  But  she 
would  have  preserved  the  type  in  her  little  daughter : 

205 


lEDITH  BONHAM 

broadened  it  to  suit  the  change  that  was  coming 
gradually  in  herself.  It  would  have  been  a  long  process 
and  she  would  have  got  results.  **  I  think  she  would 
sooner  have  lost  the  child  by  death,''  I  said,  "  than 
seen  the  type  in  her  cheapened,  or  go  down.  She 
wanted  my  help  and  I  came ;  and  I  shall  not  go  till  I 
have  done  what  I  came  for,  or  know  that  I  am  no 
longer  needed.  I  will  not  give  in  to  the  local  point 
of  view,  nor  to  any  distorted  action  from  a  bigger 
point  of  view  that  may  spring  from  it  —  in  those  who 
do  give  in." 

"Are  you  thinking  of  my  present  *  frankness'?" 
said  my  visitor. 

We  smiled  at  each  other.  She  knew  I  was  not,  and 
that  I  had  no  intention  of  telling  her  of  what  I  had 
been  thinking.  Distinctly  I  was  wondering  what  that 
frankness  might  have  done  to  Douglas  Maclay,  ex- 
posed to  it  as  I  had  been.  What  could  a  man  say  — 
how  could  he  explain  —  to  a  woman  with  a  tongue 
like  this  I 

"In  short,  you  intend  to  show  fight?"  she  asked. 

"I  intend  to  stay  and  mind  my  own  affairs — and 
get  rid  of  Mrs.  Lavinus  as  soon  as  I  can  find  a  sub- 
stitute who  is  no  worse." 

"That's  where  I  intend  to  help  you  — "  But  she 
paused.  Evidently  she  had  something  further  on  her 
mind,  or  perhaps  her  conscience.  "  I  wish  I  'd  seen  you 
sooner — well  —  before  I  plunged  into  my  mission 
with  Douglas  Maclay.  I  like  him  so  much  !  We  've 
known  him  a  long  time  without  ever  knowing  him 
at  all  really.  He  is  peculiar  1  and  he 's  very  unsocial. 

206 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

I  made  him  come  up,  when  I  could  not  get  at  you 
—  and  I  drove  things  into  him.'* 

"  I  don't  see  what  there  was  left  for  you  to  drive 
into  him,  if  the  whole  town  was  doing  it?" 

"He  never  would  have  heard  it  —  not  a  word  — 
any  more  than  Dr.  Davenport.  But  what  /  told  him 
Dick's  affair  confirmed  short  and  sharp.  He 's  hard 
to  impress,  but  I  believe  I  impressed  him  —  with 
Dick's  help.'* 

"I  think  you  did!"  I  remarked  to  myself  with  a 
shiver. 

**  How  much  of  the  time  does  he  leave  you  alone 
here  with  Dick  and  Mrs.  Lavinus  ?  " 

*'A11  the  time,  since  Dick  was  hurt,"  I  answered 
bluntly,  for  really  I  was  becoming  weary  of  my  new 
friend's  excessive  interest. 

**  Dear,  dear  I  the  town  won't  bear  it.  A  young 
woman,  and  a  young  man  notoriously  good-looking 
and  popular  (and  your  own  looks  are  no  defense), 
and  two  widowers,  neither  of  them  past  forty.  It 
won't  do  I " 

"Was  that  what  you  drove  into  Mr.  Maclay?" 

"  I  and  the  town  —  I  used  better  language.  To  you 
I  speak  as  the  town,  because  I  see  you  are  not  half 
enough  impressed." 

**  Who  is  the  other  *  widower '  ?  " 

"  Dr.  Davenport." 

I  laughed,  as  Douglas  said,  like  "  the  damned." 

"  The  baby,  you  see,  was  never  really  sick  (this  is 
how  it  goes),  yet  you  had  the  doctor  down  here  every 
week  just  to  have  another  man  to  talk  to.   Another 

207 


EDITH  BONHAM 

suspicious  thing  about  you  is  you  talk  to  young  men 
you  have  only  just  met,  in  French,  or  some  language 
the  servants  can't  understand ;  which  to  a  woman 
like  Mrs.  Lavinus  is  about  the  same  as  whispering 

—  things  not  fit  for  delicate  ears  like  hers  to  hear. 
Well ;  you  must  get  rid  of  her.  I  've  got  a  splendid 
woman  for  you  — that 's  another  part  of  my  mission. 
She 's  a  regular  *  Nanna '  trained  in  England.  You 
can  have  her  just  as  soon  as  Major  Kennedy  gets 
his  orders.  His  children  are  a  little  old  for  her,  and 
she  does  n't  want  to  go  to  Arizona.  Meanwhile,  if 
you  intend  to  stick  it  out,  you  must  let  us  see  all  we  can 
of  you.  I  want  you  to  teach  my  young  ones  French. 
.  .  .  And  will  you  come  up  and  dine  with  us  Thurs- 
day night  ?  Half-past  six  —  we  '11  send  for  you  ?  And 

—  how  about  smoking  a  cigarette  with  my  husband 
after  dinner  by  the  fire  —  or  even  with  me  I " 

I  could  laugh  now.  "  You  certainly  know  all  there 
is  to  know !  But  I  smoked  my  last  with  Dick  and 
gave  him  the  case  to  commemorate  the  sacrifice." 

"It  doesn't  go  with  the  'type'?" 

"  Not  with  the  Aylesford  type." 

"  Is  there  anything  else  I  can  meddle  with,  sticking 
my  finger  in  your  pie?" 

"  There  is  one  person  here  I  do  care  about !  Noreen 
O'Shea  is  a  good  girl  whom  I  thought  something  could 
be  made  of.  It  would  be  bad  for  her  to  believe  these 
things  in  a  horrid  way.  You  see  there  's  some  founda- 
tion for  them  all  1 " 

*'  We  '11  get  her  back  for  you,  when  we  've  rid  you  of 
La  Vinus.  What  a  name  1  Do  her  habits  support  it  ?  " 

2o8 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

**  Somewhat  —  for  a  time,  I  think — till  Hing,  the 
Chinese  cook,  complained  to  Mr.  Maclay  of  our  ale 
and  porter  bills  and  he  shut  down  on  all  stimulants 
for  the  women  and  children  of  his  household." 

"Oh,  dear!  It's  as  good  as  a  play — a  low-down 
play,  but  so  funny  —  with  you  and  Dr.  Davenport 
and  Douglas  Maclay  in  it.  I  could  weep  tears  I  But 
you'll  think  me  as  rowdy  as  all  the  rest  of  us." 

I  was  thankful  she  really  had  her  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes  just  then,  for  my  face  must  have  looked  very 
queer.  She  glanced  at  her  watch  —  "  The  ambulance 
will  be  here  at  a  quarter  to  six.  Does  your  little  girl 
have  an  early  supper?" 

At  six,  I  said ;  but  we  could  go  in  and  have  tea  at 
the  same  time.  We  heard  the  wheels  of  the  heavy 
ambulance  just  then,  and  she  said  she  would  not  keep 
the  ladies  waiting  who  were  with  her.  "I  wouldn't 
let  them  come  in;  they'll  call  later.  My  mission  was 
on  my  mind.  And  now  it's  off,  I  wish  to  say  I  'm  de- 
lighted you  are  n't  going  to  run.  I  hate  the  white 
feather." 

**So  do  I,  if  it  comes  to  that — " 

She  interrupted  me,  as  we  were  walking  towards 
the  gate  —  "  Men  have  rather  crude  ideas  of  how  to 
*  protect'  us,  haven't  they?  Or  perhaps  their  ideas 
don't  advance.  They  think  they  can't  do  anything 
for  us  but  fight  for  us  or  marry  us.  When  they  can't 
do  either,  what  are  they  to  do  1  I  would  n't  answer 
for  any  man  under  those  conditions." 

Her  remarkably  keen  eyes  were  on  my  face,  not 
rudely ;  but  the  confounded  blood  that  tells  so  many 

209 


EDITH  BONHAM 

lies,  and  occasionally  tells  the  truth,  flew  all  over  my 
helpless  countenance.  I  could  only  hope  she  might 
think  it  meant  Dr.  Davenport,  or  Dick ;  even  for  her 
imagination  it  would  have  been  too  wild  a  flight  in 
the  other  direction.  But  I  was  relieved  when  she  had 
gone. 


XIX 

I  LONGED  to  be  alone  and  think  over  this  extraordi- 
nary first  call  I  Phcebe  was  rather  fractious  at  supper, 
for  Dick  in  the  parlor  was  drumming  one-hand  ac- 
companiments and  whistling-  "Golden  Slippers"  in 
a  manner  too  distracting.  She  finished  finally  at  his 
elbow,  still  in  her  eating-apron,  pursued  by  me  with 
last  drinks  of  milk. 

The  piano  had  been  left  without  orders  in  the  bay- 
window,  where  it  could  n't  stay.  After  supper  there 
was  a  union  of  forces  to  move  it  to  a  better  place  and 
a  disunion  of  tongues  as  to  where  that  place  should 
be,  Dick  and  I  being  the  contestants.  It  was  dusk 
before  I  escaped  at  last  to  the  ditch-path,  and  even 
then  Dick  followed,  to  make  his  peace.  I  told  him  I 
had  been  talked  to  death  that  afternoon  by  probably 
the  greatest  woman-talker  in  Idaho  and  my  heart  was 
steeled  against  any  more  conversation.  He  said  he 
could  be  as  silent  as  I  wished,  and  I  retorted  that  one 
silence  is  company  and  two  is  a  crowd.  This  was  not 
coquetry  as  it  might  have  sounded,  nor  did  Dick  set 
it  down  to  ill-temper  —  his  own  was  too  sweet  for  that. 
He  took  himself  off  with  reproachful  looks,  but  I  was 
steel  to  them  also. 

Such  a  knot  as  my  thoughts  were  in  it  gave  one 
mental  pain  to  pick  at  I  Was  it  any  excuse,  even  if 
Mrs.  Forth  had  provoked  this  thing  —  goaded  him 

211 


EDITH  BONHAM 

into  the  madness  which  he  came  straight  to  me  with 
and  perpetrated  —  as  if  I  could  understand  and  bear 
it !  On  the  other  hand,  /  was  not  mad :  suppose  he 
had  acted  the  part  of  a  baited  bull  with  darts  in  his 
hide  and  a  cloak  over  his  horns  plunging  at  the  bar- 
riers —  could  I  go  on  and  class  him  as  one,  in  our 
future  relations?  I  knew  I  could  not  and  should  not 
be  able  to  treat  him  so  when  we  met  again.  And  was 
it  true  that  I  believed  Nanny's  spirit  had  died  within 
her,  watching  this  man  as  her  husband? — that  she 
had  been  glad  to  go,  but  for  that  sure  foresight  of 
the  exposure  that  would  follow  when  her  death  gave 
him  back  his  freedom  ?  I  did  n't  believe  it,  of  course : 
it  was  monstrous.  I  remembered  the  peace  in  Nanny's 
eyes  when  she  talked  of  him ;  her  humorous  yet  ap- 
preciative allusions  to  his  habit  of  silence.  But  where 
was  the  exact  line  between  his  madness  and  my  own  ? 
Is  evidence  even  of  the  senses  to  hold  against  that 
mysterious  inner  testimony  of  soul  to  soul  ?  On  the 
mesa  those  nights  when  our  thoughts  lay  bare  to 
each  other  under  the  bare  sky,  how  could  he  have 
cheated  me  I  Incredible,  outrageous  as  the  words  were 
that  I  had  heard  him  say,  somehow  the  man  himself,  in 
some  deeper  way,  still  kept  my  respect. 

I  think  it  rested,  as  to  evidence,  on  one  fact  which 
also  was  of  the  senses.  He  had  never  made  love  to 
me  by  word  or  look.  After  such  a  girlhood  as  mine 
no  man  could  deceive  me  nor  creep  up  on  my  de- 
fenses unless  I  chose.  I  would  have  detected  the  first 
sign  of  such  approach.  His  savage  reasons,  whatever 
they  might  be,  I  honored  as  against  that  sickening 

212 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

defeat  of  character  through  the  senses  of  which  I  had 
accused  him.  Brutal  as  his^  calculations  had  been, 
they  were  cool,  they  were  mental ;  he  had  n't  even 
been  obliged  to  put  on  the  curb.  His  heart  was 
coldly  with  the  dead,  my  blessed  dead  I  And  here  I 
had  further  evidence,  and  it  clinched  the  argument 
finally  between  his  soul  and  mine  brought  up  for 
judgment  in  the  mind's  tribunal,  which  may  not  be 
after  all  the  court  of  last  appeal. 

On  the  evening  after  the  day  when  he  came  back, 
and  I  had  to  meet  him  with  my  confession,  in  the 
midst  of  our  concentrated  talk  in  preparation  for  our 
flight  to  the  mesa,  —  suddenly  he  paused  and  got  up 
and  moved  around  vaguely  and  said,  not  looking  at 
me,  *'  Did  you  niake  —  did  you  have  time  to  make 
the  drawing  I  asked  you  for?" 

I  went  and  fetched  it  and  gave  it  into  his  hand  on 
the  drawing-block  as  it  was,  covered  with  thin  paper. 
I  watched,  because  I  was  jealous  to  be  sure  if  he  felt 
it,  if  he  would  feel  it  as  I  did  every  time  the  name,  her 
name,  met  my  eyes.  I  watched  and  I  knew  —  by  the 
hard  breath  that  caught  him  like  a  sob.  He  turned 
instantly  and  went  to  the  window  with  what  he  held 
as  if  to  see  better.  There  was  only  night  outside! 
He  was  alone  with  it  and  there  was  no  one  with 
whom  he  could  share  one  pang,  one  word.  I  left  him, 
satisfied.  He  had  loved  her  then  —  not  six  weeks 
before  the  monstrous  thing  that  happened  on  the 
mesa.  .  .  .  And  in  the  interval,  not  one  word,  not 
one  look  had  transpired  between  us  that  I,  or  the 
angels,  would  have  had  recalled ;  a  record  of  pure 

213 


EDITH  BONHAM 

good  understanding".  Acquitted !  —  of  the  baser  infi- 
delity. No  charge  was  left  but  that  strange  brutality 
of  the  man's  practical  mind  which  no  woman  can 
ever  understand  I  As  I  saw  it  now,  he  had  trampled 
on  his  ideals  for  the  sake  of  certain  living  results  and 
had  expected  me  to  meet  him  by  trampling  on  my 
own.  He  would  have  said,  perhaps  :  "Our  ideals  are 
in  a  safer  place  than  the  world  here  can  know,  but  we 
know,  and  so  that  we  trust  each  other,  what  does  it 
matter  I " 

It  certainly  mattered  to  me.  I  would  have  met 
him  in  another  way :  I  would  have  been  pilloried 
beside  him  in  the  eyes  of  that  world,  and  called  it 
glory  to  be  so  in  the  name  of  a  friendship  and  a  loy- 
alty as  proud  as  ours  might  have  been.  To  spare  me 
the  pillory  — was  that  the  idea  ?  — to  spare  the  living 
who  could  be  hurt,  to  sacrifice  the  dead  who  are 
safe  ?  —  I  could  hear  all  his  man's  argument.  He  owed 
me,  Nanny's  friend,  his  protection  in  an  exalted 
sense  since  I  had  come  unprepared  and  stayed  and 
cast  in  my  lot  with  his,  in  this  unparalleled  loneli- 
ness, for  the  sake  of  Nanny's  child.  The  whole  town 
was  tossing  my  name  about ;  friends  in  the  East  were 
hurrying  to  my  defense  —  "  They  can  only  fight  for 
us  or  marry  us"  —  that  is  if  they  want  to  keep  us. 
"  And  I  need  you  I  "  he  had  said.  That  was  the  other 
side  of  the  man's  argument. 

Being  settled  in  my  mind  that  these  were  his  rea- 
sons, I  threw  them  all  away  as  too  desperate  and 
utterly  preposterous.  I  gave  up,  from  the  point  of  ar- 
gument —  still  he  did  not  love  me  I  Safe  from  that 

214 


TRYING  TO   KEEP  SANE 

insult,  the  rest  might  go.  But  with  it  went  the  dream 
of  that  perfect,  proud  understanding.  He  was  as 
other  men.  We  never  did  understand  them.  My 
father  had  been  a  mystery  often  to  his  own  children, 
perhaps  even  to  his  wife.  God  has  made  us  perversely 
different  to  give  room  for  the  last  effort  of  the  heart ; 
long  patience  and  practice  in  forgiveness,  with  no 
hope  of  understanding !  They  know  not  what  they 
do,  and  we  know  not  what  we  do  to  them. 

Peaceful  days  followed,  or  days  that  should  have 
been  peaceful.  To  me  they  were  hot  and  colorless 
and  empty,  with  that  sense  of  loss  which  means  there 
was  not  much  to  lose  after  all.  I  felt  a  longing  for 
my  own  old  set,  the  talkers.  Tired  as  I  had  been 
of  them  often  and  their  talk,  impatient  of  their  ego- 
isms, their  self-conscious  dwellings  on  one  topic,  them- 
selves ;  —  still  they  had  imagination,  if  they  chose  to 
use  it,  they  had  subtlety  —  they  pushed  and  crowded, 
but  they  did  not  trample.  They  fluttered  and  flapped 
and  darkened  the  air  with  cries  or  with  counsel 
without  wisdom,  but  they  did  not  attack  with  hoofs 
and  horns  and  lowered,  brainless  heads.  Give  me  no 
more  of  these  strong  and  simple  men  I  —  they  were 
God-forsaken  idiots.  They  were  the  "  deprived,"  as 
Mrs.  Forth  had  said.  No ;  I  must  remember  now 
that  so  far  as  friendship  went  I  was  in  a  place  that 
knew  not  the  word.  I  was  alone. 

Dick,  of  course,  was  a  child.  I  gave  him  the 
honors  of  his  chivalry  in  my  defense  —  as  I  tried  to 
forgive  Douglas  his  stone-age  protection.  His  wound 
would  trouble  him  for  some  time  yet,  but  he  went 

215 


EDITH  BONHAM 

back  to  work,  such  work  as  he  could  do,  carrying 
another  wound,  as  it  is  sentimentally  called.  I  could 
have  staved  off  a  regular  proposal,  but  I  knew  he'd 
never  be  satisfied  till  he  had  got  his  answer.  It  was 
some  time  before  we  were  "by  with  it"  altogether; 
perhaps  I  was  too  gentle  with  him.  Dick  had  been 
very  good  to  me.  And  it  is  true  I  had  encouraged 
him  —  but  I  had  no  fears  for  his  future  or  that  he 
was  doomed  to  a  homeless  existence  on  my  account, 
nor  even  on  my  dear  Nanny's.  These  harmless  little 
masculine  tributes  go  with  us  on  our  way ;  one  ought 
to  be  grateful  for  them  while  they  last. 

Dick's  chief  never  came  and  I  adduced,  of  course, 
that  he  was  living  up  to  his  word.  It  was  a  surprise 
and  a  great  relief  that  Phoebe  did  not  pine  I  Indeed, 
I  believed  that  of  those  two  he  must  have  been  the 
defrauded.  She  was  not  faithless,  but  she  was  six 
years  old  and  well  and  happy,  and  new  friends  had 
come  into  her  life,  the  first  of  her  own  age  she  had 
ever  had.  She  was  much  taken  up  with  the  little 
people  at  the  Post ;  there  were  rides  in  a  goat-cart 
and  there  was  a  pony  and  an  old  trooper  who 
buckled  the  blanket  and  surcingle  and  held  the  rein 
and  ran  at  his  side  when  the  children  rode  him,  and 
set  them  on  again  when  the  pony  shook  them  off ; 
and  other  thrilling  adventures  connected  with  visits 
to  the  Reservation.  Isabel  Forth,  as  I  now  called 
her,  had  justified  her  interference  in  my  domestic 
and  other  affairs.  Thanks  to  her  I  had  my  English 
nurse  and  Noreen  too.  Worthy  Mrs.  O'Shea  had  a 
great  respect  for  "the  military."  Seeing  me  on  visit- 

216 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

ing  terms  with  ladies  at  the  Post  and  dining  with 
the  CDlonel's  wife  and  teaching  her  children,  she  con- 
cluded, I  suppose,  that  appearances  had  deceived 
somebody.  Through  this  one  and  that  one,  good 
Catholics  all,  the  return  of  Noreen  was  diplomati- 
cally achieved  without  loss  of  prestige  on  either  side. 
As  to  Isabel  Forth,  my  rapid  intimacy  with  her  was 
not  friendship  —  my  idea  of  friendship  —  it  was  one 
of  those  wayside  flowers  of  fancy  and  homesickness 
that  spring  and  bloom  in  the  long  heats  of  a  fron- 
tier summer.  She  was,  of  us  two,  the  more  rapid 
bloomer,  though  I  should  not  say  she  was  quicker 
to  fade.  It  is  now  rather  as  a  dried  flower  of  fancy  I 
find  her  image  in  my  records  of  this  time,  still  color- 
ful and  faintly  pungent ;  there  is  much  tenacity  in 
these  pressed  flowers  of  memory  unless  one  handles 
them  too  often. 

Besides  the  dinners  and  the  French  lessons  I  had 
other  errands  at  the  Post.  Isabel  had  begged  me  to 
start  a  little  dancing-class,  having  surprised  me  one 
day  in  the  act  of  giving  Phoebe  her  first  positions. 
Hardly  any  one  knew  of  my  loss  —  no  one  who  knew 
it  from  me.  I  did  not  go  into  mourning.  There  were 
sad  and  sordid  reasons  against  it.  My  railroad  fares 
had  been  advanced  by  Douglas  Maclay ;  to  be  sure, 
that  was  not  Nanny's  way  of  putting  it,  but  it  was 
mine.  The  money  must  be  paid  back  or  saved  for 
that  purpose,  month  by  month,  and  enough  more 
piled  up  to  take  me  home,  if  the  time  should  come 
when  that  would  be  the  next  step  before  me.  Who 
could  say  what  the  practical  male  mind  might  lend 

217 


EDITH  BONHAM 

itself  to  next?  Something  I  felt  was  coming;  the 
ground  was  too  queer  and  shaky  under  my  feet.  I 
felt  it  coming  in  the  long,  hot  days,  and  short,  mndy 
nights  of  starlight,  or  of  waxing,  waning  moons. 

As  the  summer  grew  old,  Isabel  and  I  had  our 
first  quarrel.  I  love  to  dance  and  by  nature  I  can,  — 
though  not  better  than  Essie.  Papa  used  to  play  for 
us  in  the  right  hour  for  exercise  up  in  the  studio, 
and  we,  at  any  age,  and  in  any  sort  of  costume  he 
chose  to  array  us  in,  used  to  caper  about  the  big  place 
to  the  rhythmic  beat  of  his  improvisations.  The 
music,  and  his  hand  raised  and  his  eyes  upon  us,  led 
the  movement  he  wished  to  inspire  us  with.  It  gave 
us  our  best  physical  development  and  by  degrees  it 
led  to  ball-room  dancing,  in  which,  however,  we  had 
less  practice.  The  quarrel  began  with  Isabel's  pride 
in  our  lessons  and  her  craving  for  spectators.  It  was 
ball-room  dancing  I  was  supposed  to  start  the  children 
in,  but  we  had  our  interpretive  attempts.  Such  danc- 
ing is  called  by  high  names  now.  They  were  an 
exceptional  group  of  children  to  teach  and  our  prog- 
ress was  beautiful  to  see.  Among  those  who  came 
to  look  on  was  Dr.  Davenport  with  his  kind,  tired 
eyes  and  rather  savage  smile,  and  a  curious  intent 
gravity  which  had  struck  Isabel,  but  I  was  too  busy 
to  notice  him. 

"  Some  day  "  —  this  was  our  quarrel  —  "  Dr.  Daven- 
port will  up  and  ask  you  to  marry  him  point-blank  1 
You  won't  know  anything  about  it  till  it  happens. 
And  you  '11  go  up  like  fire  and  refuse  him  and  you  '11 
make  a  great  mistake."  I  looked  at  Isabel  Forth,  but 

2l8 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

she  is  not  an  easy  person  to  look  down  I  She  con- 
tinued:  ** There's  no  one  to  compare  him  with  pro- 
fessionally but  the  best.  You  need  n't  stay  in  the 
army  if  you  don't  like  it — he  's  in  it  for  the  love  of  it : 
his  boys  in  barracks  and  his  army  mothers  and  little 
children  in  the  wilds.  He  has  a  private  fortune.  He 
lost  his  wife  twelve  years  ago  and  he  has  been  a 
most  dignified  —  " 

"Widower,"  I  supplied. 

"Yes."  She  accepted  the  word  without  a  smile. 
"  All  the  women  in  the  army  have  tried  to  marry  him 
themselves  or  to  some  of  their  friends  —  but,  as  I  say, 
he 's  a  most  gentlemanly — " 

"  If  you  say  it  again  you  '11  be  sorry,  Isabel ! " 

"  I  shall  say  it  again  till  I  convince  you  he  is  up  to 
his  ears  in  love  with  you,  and  it  will  come  upon  you 
in  a  flash,  and  you  '11  flash  back  and  it  will  be  a  flash- 
in-the-pan.  And  it  ought  not  to  be  I " 

"  It  will  end  everything  between  us,  if  I  can't  come 
up  to  the  Post  without  being  badgered  about  widow- 
ers, or  men  of  any  description." 

"Nothing  will  end  anything  between  us  I"  she  re- 
torted gayly,  "  because  I  've  got  some  humor.  You're 
not  blessed  with  much  these  days." 

"I'm  blest  if  I  care  for  your  style  of  humor,  if  this 
is  a  specimen,"  I  said.  "  You  know  you  'd  bring  the 
whole  Post  about  our  ears  if  we  should  be  overheard." 

She  seized  her  advantage  in  this  poor  speech  in  the 
haste  of  anger.  "I  don't  wonder  you  think  of  that 
after  your  own  experiences,  poor  dear,  but  I  'm  on  my 
own  ground.  If  I'm  safe,  you're  safe.'* 

219 


EDITH  BONHAM 

"  —  Not  from  you,  it  seems  I  I  thought  we  had  a 
special  testimony  to  bear  against  this  particularly 
primitive  sort  of  gossip?" 

**  I  never  said  the  army  is  not  primitive.  But  the 
army  has  humor  —  if  it  isn't  stationed  too  long  in 
one  place,  in  a  place  like  this.  I  've  just  been  East,  so 
I  have  some  left.  It  tickles  me  to  think  how  pleased 
your  aunt  would  be — " 

**  Why  do  you  make  me  hang  my  aunt  I  —  by  drag- 
ging her  into  all  my  affairs,  even  the  ones  you  invent 
for  me?  If  you  keep  on,  Isabel,  I  shall  say,  as  Beatrix 
Esmond  said  to  her  mother,  —  *  Something  hath  broke 
between  us.' " 

"  Nothing  will  ever  break  between  us,  you  goose  1 
—  by  the  way,  when  you  do  go  back  to  New  York, 
you  '11  notice  one  thing :  you  '11  hold  yourself  better. 
You're  beginning  to  stoop  a  little,  Edith.  But  the 
moment  your  feet  touch  the  pavement  you'll  feel 
braced ;  set  up  I  —  I  always  do.  My  waist  goes  in 
and  my  chest  goes  out  and  my  head  goes  up  —  " 

She  proceeded  to  show  me  how  she  looked  in  New 
York,  **set  up,"  and  how  I  looked  in  Boise  City, 
Idaho,  when  I  had  slumped  and  lost  my  sense  of  humor 
and  my  pride  of  port.  The  exhibition  provoked  im- 
moderate mirth  and  ended  in  a  swirl  of  skirts  as  we 
chased  each  other  down  the  narrow  hall  and  nearly 
bumped  into  the  colonel,  coming  out  from  his  study 
buckling  on  his  sword  —  not  to  beat  us  with,  but  as 
the  instinct  of  an  officer  recovering  his  pride  of  port, 
after  relaxing  on  a  hot  afternoon.  Isabel's  sense  of 
humor  occasionally  descended  into  romps,  or  what 

220 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

might  be  called  so  in  a  lady  of  her  position  and 
perhaps  her  age  —  which  I  cannot  answer  for.  She 
romped  in  her  conversation,  too,  at  times,  and  I  was 
not  far  behind  her :  but  it  left  a  slightly  unpleasant 
taste  in  one's  mouth  for  which  one  was  inclined  to 
hold  her  responsible. 

The  colonel  did  not  hold  us  responsible  :  he  smiled 
on  us  indulgently.  The  colonel  was  not  young,  but 
then  he  would  never  be  old.  Isabel  looked  after  him 
a  moment  as  he  closed  his  door.  Suddenly  she  took 
me  by  the  shoulders:  — 

"Let  me  tell  you  a  secret  I  My  husband  was  a 
widower  —  not  twelve  years  —  two!  Don't  blush. 
I  '11  tell  you  the  rest  some  day."  She  made  mournful 
eyes  at  me. 

I  said  if  I  blushed  for  anybody  it  would  not  be  the 
colonel  —  he  undoubtedly  could  not  help  himself. 

"  You  need  n't  blush  for  me,  then  I  I  saved  him  from 
a  far  worse  fate.  Did  n't  I  say  the  army  is  primitive  1 " 


XX 

The  gray-stemmed  poplars  that  were  bare  when  I 
first  saw  their  columns  closing  down  the  streets  of  the 
valley  town,  were  turning  gold,  and  flocks  of  leaves 
were  slanting  across  the  shadows  on  our  ditch-path. 
It  was  cool  enough  to  assemble  the  little  dancers 
as  early  as  three,  and  that  afternoon  Miss  Phoebe 
Maclay  was  At  Home.  It  was  more  than  a  dancing- 
class,  it  was  a  Birthday.  Phoebe  was  not  only  in  her 
sixth  year  —  she  was  six,  and  hereafter  would  be  in 
her  seventh  year.  This  had  been  explained ;  also  I 
warned  her  that  her  father  in  Silver  City  might  not 
have  been  advised  of  the  important  fact  and  she 
would  do  well  not  to  count  upon  his  presence.  Such 
things  should  not  be,  but  they  were  1  It  was  sad  even 
to  see  how  easily  she  accepted  the  disappointment. 

We  had  come  to  the  last  dance  before  supper,  the 
climax  of  the  lesson.  I  saw  Isabel  smile  and  nod,  as 
her  fingers  played  on,  to  some  one  out  of  the  window 
at  her  right.  As  the  dance  swayed  down  the  room  I 
passed  the  window  and  looked  out.  My  eyes  met 
those  of  Phoebe's  father  gazing  in  as  if  he  might  have 
been  standing  there  some  time.  We  did  not  speak ; 
we  did  not  even  smile ;  Phoebe  had  not  seen  him.  The 
music  stopped  and  Isabel  turned  on  her  stool  and  he 
swung  himself  inside  and  sat  on  the  window-sill  and 
opened  his  arms  to  Phoebe.  She  flew  into  them  and 

222 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

he  raised  her  to  his  knees.  She  clung  to  him  close 
and  clasped  him  round  the  neck. 

"  You  've  come  to  my  birthday !  Aunt  Edith  said 
you  might  not  know  it  was  my  birthday." 

"Is  it  your  birthday?"  he  asked,  and  I  saw  the 
pang  shoot  across  his  face.  Phoebe  was  not  the  kind 
of  child  who  demands,  "What  have  you  brought 
me?"  She  had  a  remarkable  delicacy  about  gifts  and 
her  scale  of  values  might  have  been  that  of  the  angels, 
so  disassociated  it  was  from  price.  But  he  had  not 
even  a  flower.  I  knew  what  he  was  thinking  —  his 
child's  first  birthday  since  she  became  motherless ; 
strangers  were  there  to  celebrate  it,  and  he,  the  great- 
est stranger,  had  come  not  even  knowing  it  was  the 
day  I 

At  supper  there  were  little  gifts  at  each  place,  and 
a  chaplet  of  pale  yellow  poplar  leaves  to  crown  each 
guest.  They  were  so  Greek  in  their  bare  brown  limbs 
and  slender  grace  of  proportions,  and  the  pearly 
shadows  beneath  uplifted  chins  as  shining  heads 
were  raised  —  I  Phoebe's  father  placed  the  wreath  on 
her  head  and  she  smiled  up  at  him  divinely  and  he 
stooped  and  kissed  her.  It  was  his  only  gift.  He  re- 
tired to  one  side  and  Isabel  Forth  made  talk  with 
him  while  Noreen  and  I  waited  on  table.  We  had 
had  all  the  pleasure  —  I  had  had  —  preparing  for  the 
beautiful  sight;  he  had  only  the  enduring  pain  of 
absence,  worse  perhaps  than  loss.  He  was  silent  and 
his  eyes  hardly  moved  from  his  own  child,  though  all 
were  lovely  I  Two  little  crop-headed  boys  in  middy 
suits  and  two  little  girls  in  corresponding  white  of 

223 


EDITH  BONHAM 

a  filmier  texture  and  ribbons  blue  and  pink.  All  of 
them  as  brown  as  only  the  sea  and  the  sun  of  the 
plains  can  do  the  trick,  and  all  little  Americans  of 
the  super-representative  class. 

Everything  was  easy  while  the  party  lasted,  but 
when  our  guests  were  gone  and  we  had  seen  them 
off  at  the  gate,  a  stiffness  fell  upon  the  unhappy  grown- 
ups in  their  individual  maladjustments.  Phcebe, 
mounted  on  her  father's  shoulder,  had  taken  off  her 
wilted  crown  and  mashed  it  down  on  his  head 
crookedly  over  one  eye,  and  he  squinted  up  at  her 
decorated  in  this  bacchanalian  fashion.  In  the  same 
guise  he  bore  her  off  to  bed.  I  found  them  waiting 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

"  Would  n't  you  like  to  put  her  to  bed  yourself?"  I 
asked.  "She's  very  clever  about  undoing  things. 
Noreen  will  come  up  and  straighten  the  room  after 
you."  I  smiled,  inferring  romps. 

"  Oh,  do,  papa  1  oh,  do  put  me  to  bed  I "  Phoebe 
jumped  up  and  down  in  his  arms  and  squeezed  him 
around  the  neck. 

"  I  might  n't  live  to  go  through  with  it  if  I  'm  to 
be  choked  like  this.  I  'd  fall  on  the  floor  and  Noreen 
would  have  to  pick  me  up." 

"  Oh,  do  fall  on  the  floor  I "  Phcebe  was  only  too 
pleased  at  the  prospect. 

*'  Perhaps  you  'd  be  good  enough  to  wait  awhile 
till  we  see  what's  going  to  happen?"  I  supposed  I 
was  the  person  addressed,  as  there  was  no  one  else 
present,  but  he  did  not  use  my  name. 

I  sat  outside  on  the  stairs  and  heard  Phoebe's  ex- 
224 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

cited  laughter  and  her  chatter  like  a  whole  nest  full 
of  young  birds  settling  for  the  night. 

"  Now  bring  me  Dick,"  she  commanded,  being  at 
last  in  bed. 

"Dick?  what 'Dick'?" 

"Why,  Dick!  —  on  Aunt  Edith's  bureau.  Don't 
you  see,  papa?  He  's  got  a  bandage  on." 

The  Hermes  still  wore  a  bandage,  though  the  doll's 
petticoat  was  at  present  "  in  the  wash,"  and  the 
bandage  ought  to  have  been,  I  regret  to  say.  Any 
eye  could  have  seen  the  likeness  to  the  real  Dick 
"of  ours." 

"Now  give  him  to  me,  papa.  Not  on  that  side  — 
that 's  his  hurted  side.  Lay  him  the  other  way."  A 
good-night  kiss  followed,  a  very  fervent  smack  from 
Phcebe.    "Now  kiss  Dick  too, — kiss  Dick,  papa!" 

He  came  out  looking  slightly  heated.  It  was  a 
warm  room  at  bedtime  even  in  September ;  one  of 
Dr.  Davenport's  reasons,  by  the  way,  for  sending  us 
out  upon  the  land. 

"I  want  to  say  *  good-night'  to  Aunt  Edith," 
Phoebe  called  cheerfully.  I  went,  knowing  what 
would  follow:  — "  Now  kiss  Dick,  Aunt  Edith." 

It  did  seem  possible,  as  Isabel  had  declared,  that 
I  had  parted  with  my  sense  of  humor  and  needed  to 
go  East.  The  fly-mindedness  of  the  place  affected 
one's  own  mind  evidently,  if  one  did  not  take  care. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  little  time  for  a  talk,  some- 
where?" he  asked  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  "Sup- 
pose we  go  outside." 

Words  as  serious  as  these,  from  him,  sent  the  blood 
225 


EDITH  BONHAM 

to  my  heart.  I  suppose  I  may  have  turned  pale.  He 
turned  savage. 

"  Are  you  still  afraid  of  the  brute  ?  " 

"  I  'm  not  afraid  of  you." 

"  You  are  I  —  you  are  trembling  this  minute.  Be- 
cause you  don't  trust  me,  and  you  never  will  trust 
me  again.  Well ;  I  shall  soon  be  saved  the  necessity 
of  forcing  myself  upon  you,  even  on  birthdays." 

I  was  silent,  grieved  at  his  anger,  for  mine  had 
died.  His  must  have  been  welded  fast  to  his  thoughts 
of  me  forever,  by  my  own  hideous  words.  Only  some 
fire  hotter  than  the  wrath  that  had  fused  them  could 
ever  melt  them  apart.  So  we  must  go  on  senselessly  ; 
for  all  was  dead  and  cold  between  us  now.  We  went 
to  the  usual  place,  and  mechanically,  side  by  side, 
began  walking  up  and  down. 

"  Have  you  had  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Aylesford  lately  ?  " 
he  inquired. 

I  had  had  one  not  long  before,  I  told  him,  from  the 
sanatorium;  but  she  had  spoken  of  going  home — al- 
most at  once,  she  had  said.  The  letter  sounded  as  if 
she  were  quite  ready  to  go  —  better,  better  altogether, 
than  I  had  ever  expected  her  to  be. 

"Yes;  that  is  it — better  altogether.  She  has  pro- 
posed to  take  the  children  if  it  would  suit  me  to  have 
her.  You,  of  course,  she  hopes  to  have  with  Phcebe ; 
and  the  baby's  nurse  under  your  commands.  She  has 
everything  planned.  But  she  is  careful  not  to  urge  it. 
She  knows  it  is  a  good  thing  for  a  man  to  see  his 
children —  The  question  for  these  children  is,  what 
will  be  best  for  them  ?  It  would  be  a  great  relief  to 

226 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

you  to  go  back  in  this  way  which  is  so  good  for  them 
and  so  happy  for  her  —  Mrs.  Aylesf ord.  And  she  robs 
me  of  nothing  I  had  not  lost,  you  know.  But  you  will 
still  take  care  of  Phoebe?" 

"  As  long  as  Phoebe  needs  me  and  you  will  let  me,'* 
I  cried. 

**I  let  you!  How  strange  it  is  that  you  can't  even 
understand  that  I  that  for  the  sake  of  Phoebe  I  would 
. —  and  I  do  —  and  I  have  —  sacrificed  more  than  I 
care  to  think  about." 

"  We  will  not  raise  that  question  after  this,  then," 
I  said.  "  I  wish  to  go  straight  on  with  Phoebe ;  I  have 
loved  her  from  the  time  she  was  a  little  mysterious 
baby  looking  at  you  with  those  eyesl" 

He  drew  one  of  his  great  breaths. 

"And  you  will  write  to  me?  I'm  afraid  I  can't  let 
you  off  from  that.  And  I  will  write  —  to  Phoebe.  I 
must  keep  in  touch  with  her  to  that  extent." 

It  was  n't  really  safe  for  us  to  be  together  in  the 
unhappy  distortion  of  our  minds.  Or  his  mind ;  my 
own  I  thought  was  safe  from  bitterness,  but  I  was 
hurt  and  heartsick  at  his  words.  Would  I  write  to 
him  about  his  child?  would  I  endure  that  he  should 
write  to  her?  His  resentment  had  destroyed  his 
common  sense. 

"  If  you  find  it  strange  that  I  can't  understand  you, 
it  may  seem  strange  to  me  that  you  can't  give  me 
credit  for  being  even  human." 

"You  are  human,  to  children." 

"  Very  well ;  children  are  the  issue  between  us." 

"Exactly,"  said  he,  "if  you  wish  it  so." 
227 


EDITH  BONHAM 

"  If  I  wish  it  so  I  I  should  say  all  other  issues  that 
might  have  been,  and  should  have  been,  are  dead 
between  us." 

"  As  dead  as  the  Doldrums !  .  .  .  I  shall  telegraph 
Mrs.  Aylesford  that  her  *  terms  are  accepted.'  And 
you  will  be  glad  to  go  as  soon  as  possible,  of  course. 
Your  friends  at  the  Post  will  miss  you." 

I  hoped  so,  I  said.  "  Mrs.  Forth  is  rather  a  human 
sort  of  person :  strange  that  she  and  I  should  get  on 
together." 

**  Oh,  women  I "  he  retorted.  "You  are  a  close  cor- 
poration ;  you  have  a  code  of  your  own." 

"As  for  going  back,"  I  resumed,  "I  love  Mrs. 
Aylesford  too.  I  can't  imagine  a  sweeter  place  to  be. 
But  I  do  —  if  you  will  let  me  say  so  ?  —  appreciate 
what  you  are  doing  for  your  children.  Setting  your- 
self aside  as  if  you  had  no  rights  in  them."  Thus 
awkwardly  I  put  it  because  it  was  become  so  difficult 
to  approach  him. 

"  I  am  well  aware  of  my  rights,"  he  answered  coldly. 
"  Some  day  I  may  claim  them.  This  is  for  the  pres- 
ent. We  may  hit  upon  some  compromise  later;  not 
so  good  for  them,  perhaps,  but  a  little  more  *  human' 
for  their  father.  Mrs.  Aylesford  will  write  you  all 
the  details  —  about  your  rooms  and  the  fires  and 
the  bathroom  they  are  going  to  build.  I  should  n't 
wonder  if  it  may  prolong  her  life,  having  the  children, 
—  now  that  she  has  returned  to  life.  She  is  a  very 
single-minded  person." 

"But  not  small-minded." 

"  No ;  her  letter  to  me  was  very  far  from  that  I " 
228 


TRYING  TO  KEEP  SANE 

He  hesitated  —  "I  don't  believe  much  in  showing 
letters." 

For  some  reason  he  desired,  I  could  see,  to  show 
me  this  letter.  I  did  not  wish  to  read  it. 

"I  agree  with  you,"  I  said.  "She  will  probably 
write  to  me  soon." 

"  She  spoke  of  writing  to  you  as  soon  as  she  had 
heard  from  me.  She  has  a  great  fear  of  your  going 
back  to  your  family,  giving  the  children  up?"  Per- 
haps that  was  his  reason  for  wishing  me  to  read  her 
letter,  just  as  she  had  revealed  her  heart  to  him. 

I  turned  to  go  in.  He  stood  in  front  of  me  obliging 
me  to  stop.  **  Edith,"  he  said,  —  and  then  he  paused 
and  finished  (but  I  did  not  believe  it  was  what  he  had 
begun  to  say), -—"did  you  see  Mars  last  night  — 
how  close  he  was  to  the  moon?  It  may  not  be  an 
occultation,  but  it  will  come  pretty  near  it  to-night. 
Would  you  care  to  sit  up  and  watch  it  —  about 
twelve?" 

"  No,"  I  said  shortly  ;  "  I  \e  seen  occultations  be- 
fore. They  don't  interest  me  much." 

It  was  rude  to  leave  him  so,  and  besides  my  last 
words  were  not  safe  to  leave  him  with.  They  had  a 
double  meaning  which  is  not  a  wise  thing  to  indulge 
in  at  another's  expense,  unless  it  is  pretty  well  cov- 
ered. He  had  been  a  sort  of  star,  a  red  planet  of  the 
night,  —  our  lonely  nights  on  the  mesa,  —  watched 
for  after  sunset,  burning  bright  against  the  growing 
dusk.  The  main  point  just  now  was,  not  that  he  had 
been  a  star,  but  that  he  had  gone  out.  So  I  went 
back  and  changed  the  key :  — 

229 


EDITH  BONHAM 

"  Is  n't  the  boy  to  have  a  name  one  of  these  days? 
Will  you  write  to  Mrs.  Aylesford  about  it  ?  —  any 
choice  that  you  have  made,  if  you  have  chosen?  " 

He  paused,  looking  at  the  end  of  his  cigar  in  a 
man's  attitude  of  gaining  time  and  self-command. 
"The  boy  was  named  —  for  me  —  before  he  was 
born.  It  is  not  a  name  I  like,  but  we  will  not  change 
it.  Except  —  please  put  *  William '  before  it." 

I  seemed  doomed  to  stab  him.  "  Before  he  was 
born  I "  There  is  nothing  so  simple  as  losing  a  wife, 
nothing  more  common  than  naming  a  child.  But 
where  do  the  infinite  chords  of  attachment  lie,  and 
how  can  one  approach  these  simple  facts  of  life  with- 
out striking  one  of  those  thrilling  strings  that  are 
fastened  to  a  human  heart ! 

I  was  altogether  melted  and  relentant.  "For  all 
that  I  keep  saying  to  wound  you,  and  for  all  that  I 
have  said,  and  may  say  hereafter,  will  you  forgive 
me,  Douglas,  for  the  sake  of  her  I  know  you  loved 
—  whom  I  believe  you  love  this  moment  still?" 

"  Have  you  discovered  that  ?  Then  there  is  hope 
you  may  learn  something  else  if  we  both  live  long 
enough,"  was  his  answer. 

"Tell  me,  now  I "  I  demanded.  "  I  have  made  you 
suffer  —  it  would  be  a  sign  of  your  forgiveness  I " 

He  shook  his  head.  "We  are  done  with  words.  No 
more  words  1 "  ~      . 


PART  V 
THE  TWO  ESSIES 


XXI 

The  week  of  the  equinoctial,  that  autumn,  I  spent  in 
New  York,  having  delivered  my  two  charges  safe 
from  their  journey  to  the  grandparents,  and  seen 
them  settled  at  Lime  Point.  There  had  been  many 
a  beaming  "Well,  well!"  from  Mr.  Aylesford,  and 
much  wiping  of  spectacles  by  grandmamma  herself. 
She  really  was  herself,  though  she  no  more  trotted 
through  the  halls  with  a  guest's  wraps  and  satchels ; 
nor  were  the  halls  cold  as  they  used  to  be.  Heaters 
had  been  put  in  and  registers  —  all  sorts  of  dread- 
ful things  they  had  done  to  the  dear  old  house  for 
the  sake  of  the  little  hostages  of  the  new  generation 
that  must  have  things  different  from  the  old.  In  all 
ways  Mrs.  Aylesford  had  lost  her  initiative  and  was 
subdued ;  she  did  less  with  her  hands  and  feet,  she 
noticed  less  what  others  did.  She  had  never,  after 
twenty  years,  quite  trusted  even  Mary  Martin  in  cer- 
tain departments,  —  for  instance,  guest-towels,  as  I  re- 
membered. She  did  not  examine  my  towels  now,  nor 
chase  after  me  with  wraps  on  cool  mornings. 

She  was  like  an  old-fashioned  instrument  of  taut 
wires,  unscrewed.  The  music  was  hushed ;  there  were 
none  of  those  quick  shivers  of  response  when  the  in- 
visible breaths  of  life  passed  over  her ;  she  was  lax, 
but  she  was  not  going  to  snap.  She  spoke  in  the 
same  gentle  platitudes,  but  with  less  energy  of  de- 
livery. Things,  even  as  late  as  this  and  so  soon  after 

233 


EDITH  BONHAM 

the  shock  of  her  grief,  had  taken  new  proportions. 
She  had  no  less  sweetness,  but  more  repose. 

Perhaps  the  thing  that  touched  one  most  was  her 
timidity  about  the  children ;  she  seemed  almost 
afraid  to  touch  the  baby.  As  to  advice,  she  was  si- 
lent. I  am  sure  she  would  not  have  argued  with 
Nanny  now.  She  made  no  protest,  of  course,  against 
my  visit,  leaving  the  baby  to  his  nurse  so  soon  — 
she  knew  I  must  see  my  sister,  and  that  many  serious 
matters  since  papa's  death  remained  to  discuss  and 
settle.  But  I  could  see  the  shades  of  apprehension 
close  over  her.  I  need  not  say  that  I  left  her  with  re- 
luctance, not  only  on  account  of  her  visible  dread  of 
my  absence  :  I  feared,  somehow,  for  her  —  as  if  she 
might  take  flight. 

In  New  York  I  was  given  a  wonderful,  a  surpris- 
ing welcome  by  everybody  belonging  to  us  and 
everybody  I  knew.  One  had  to  go  to  Idaho  it  seemed 
to  learn  one's  value  in  New  York.  Absence,  in  the 
case  of  relatives,  may  possibly  draw  one  closer  to 
those  we  have  had  so  near  us  that  any  day  we  might 
have  seen  them  and  done  things  for  them ;  hence 
we  never  did  see  them  and  never  did  anything  till 
they  were  gone  and  it  was  too  late.  This  was 
Essie's  suggestion,  who  always  managed  to  let  in 
a  ray  of  irony  upon  my  hasty  self-gratulations. 

"  My  dear,  they  are  so  relieved  to  have  you  safe 
back  again,  so  they  need  n't  reproach  themselves  — 
and  to  know  you  are  so  nicely  settled  up  there  with 
the  Aylesfords.  What  is  one  week  I  People  will  do 
anything  for  you  if  it  only  lasts  a  week." 

234 


THE  TWO  ESSIES 

As  Essie  sat  there  making  this  Chesterfieldian 
speech  with  an  engaging  smile,  I  thought  her  the 
prettiest  woman  certainly  that  I  had  seen  since  I  saw 
her  last.  I  did  not  mind  her  cynicism  —  not  relatives, 
or  anything  else  in  New  York,  could  hurt  me  now. 
I  had  gone  through  that  which  leaves  one  immune 
from  such  things  as  petty  slights  and  fancied  neglect 
or  patronage.  Essie  was  a  comfort  in  that  she  was 
mine,  my  own  sister,  just  herself,  talking  in  her  old 
way.  As  to  Aunt  Essie,  I  was  very  soon  able  to 
prove  how  mistaken  she  had  been  there. 

Aunt  Essie  had  been  at  the  train  to  meet  me  with 
Essie  in  her  carriage.  This  was  my  first  surprise, 
but  explainable  (according  to  Essie)  if  it  meant  I  was 
welcome  if  I  did  not  stay  too  long.  She  took  me  at 
once  to  certain  shops,  for  she  would  n't  have  me  seen 
a  moment  out  of  mourning.  The  next  surprise  — 
even  to  Essie,  I  think  —  came  when  she  asked  me 
to  stay  with  her,  Essie's  house  being  full  —  as  I 
knew  it  was,  but  that  had  been  settled  between  Essie 
and  me.  I  glanced  at  her,  and  she  smiled  on  the 
proposition. 

"Of  course  you  girls  must  see  each  other — we 
shall  manage  about  that.  Come,  Essie :  you  '11  give 
her  up,  won't  you  —  just  for  bed  and  board?" 

I  knew  that  Jack  and  Essie  were  not  in  favor  with 
our  clever  aunt  in  the  smart  world.  Their  ways  did 
not  please  her,  and  their  independence  of  her  criti- 
cism offended  her  and  hurt  her  affection.  And  none 
of  us  on  papa's  side  had  seen  much  of  her  since  the 
silly  "  breach,"  because  of  that  or  other  things  inher- 

235 


EDITH  BONHAM 

ent  both  in  papa  and  herself,  and  in  us  very  likely. 
My  having  done  this  startling  thing  —  as  she  must 
have  thought  it  —  seemed  to  have  made  all  the  dif- 
ference, or  was  it  papa's  death  ?  I  chose  the  gentler 
reason,  for  I  knew  they  must  have  loved  each  other 
well  and  missed  each  other  during  their  absurd 
estrangement.  Essie  and  I  thanked  her  and  agreed 
to  consider  the  invitation,  after  we  had  had  one  night 
together  under  the  same  roof. 

In  the  course  of  that  evening's  prolonged  talk,  till 
after  midnight,  I  learned  why  Essie  was  mollified 
toward  our  aunt,  though  to  a  degree  only. 

**  Mind  you,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  believe  she  would 
ever  have  thought  of  it  herself  or  asked  about 
debts  and  such  things,  though  she  must  have 
known  we  had  nothing ;  but  she  heard  through 
Uncle  Charles  at  his  club  that  a  plan  was  on  foot 
among  papa's  artist  friends  to  take  all  that  off  our 
shoulders.  They  knew,  of  course,  how  we  were  left. 
That  hurt  her  dreadfully  1  strangers  —  beggarly  art- 
ists and  literary  men  —  helping  out  her  own  blood. 
She  swept  in  then  magnificently  and  took  it  all  out 
of  their  hands  and  Uncle  Charles  wrote  a  check  — 
I  don't  know  how  much  it  was  and  I  don't  want  to 
know.  It 's  done,  and  that  much,  however  it  was  done, 
we  have  to  thank  her  for.  She  has  never  mentioned 
it.  But  it  began  with  those  old  dears  with  nothing  of 
their  own  to  spare,  but  such  memories  of  papa  — 
such  a  friend,  such  a  host  as  he  was  1  Well :  he  '11 
be  missed  —  and  the  studio  will  be  missed.  ...  It's 
perfectly  horrible  to  see  it  now  I  —  babies  and  dirt 

236 


THE  TWO  ESSIES 

all  over  the  place.  You  won't  mind  its  being  sold, 
will  you  ?  " 

"  I  shall  mind  nothing,"  I  said.  "  But  I  'm  going 
to  see  what's  under  this  invitation.  I  want  to  stay 
there.   You  won't  care  if  I  do?" 

"  Certainly  not.  It 's  quite  the  thing  you  ought  to 
do,  and  Jack  and  I  are  not  too  proud  to  go  there  to 
dinner  if  she  wants  us.  Something  very  interesting 
might  come  of  it ;  something  interesting  to  you  is 
sure  to  come  of  it.  She  sees  you  now  as  a  stranger. 
She 's  very  much  bowled  over  —  she  can't  keep  her 
eyes  off  you.  It 's  the  funniest  thing  I  ever  beheld, 
you  two  in  the  carriage  side  by  side  —  you  noticed 
she  ignored  that  I  was  the  elder.  —  As  I  sat  oppo- 
site, I  could  see  her  trying  to  see  your  profile,  peep- 
ing at  you,  listening  to  every  word,  taking  you  in 
in  an  amazed  sort  of  way.  We  are  a  wonderful 
family  I 

**  But  you  are  changed,  Edith  ! "  Essie  regarded 
me  calmly,  but  with  keen  eyes.  "  I  'm  impressed 
with  you  too.  Is  there  anything  out  there  that  ages 
people  !  —  inside,  somehow  ?  You  look  not  much 
different,  now  I'm  used  to  you  —  you 're  browner, 
like  the  sea.  I  should  say  you  were  just  off  ship- 
board, a  long  voyage  —  on  deck  most  of  the  time." 

''I've  been  on  deck  —  and  it  was  something  of  a 
voyage,"  I  agreed.  "Yes  ;  I  think  the  West  is  aging. 
The  men  you  know  are  dry,  cool,  indurated  somehow 
—  but  they  are  children.  I  'm  no  child  1 " 

"No  ;  you're  not.  I  can  see  that  I  Aunt  Essie  will 
be  a  child  in  your  hands,  my  dear.    Use  her  nicely, 

237 


EDITH  BONHAM 

won't  you?  She'd  be  dreadfully  convenient  if  she 
liked  one." 

"  You  need  n't  say  that  sort  of  thing  to  me !  As  if 
I  didn't  know  how  'nicely'  you've  treated  her  for 
convenience'  sake." 

**  I  was  mistaken.  I  'm  wiser  now.  I  wish  we 
could  be  friends  —  with  all  the  family  we  have  left. 
New  York  is  lonesome — without  papa." 

We  shed  our  first  tears  quiedy  together  over  this. 
New  York  was  lonesome  to  me  —  stripped  of  a  cer- 
tain glamour,  and  of  a  certain  anguish  it  used  to  hold 
for  me  that  would  never  come  again.  I  was  stripped 
—  bare  to  the  bone.  It  startled  me  how  little  I  cared 
now  for  things  I  had  thought  I  depended  on.  It  is 
being  aged  very  suddenly  when  one  cares  for  so 
few  things. 

In  Aunt  Essie's  great  beautiful  house  the  thing  I 
enjoyed  most  was  the  silence  of  a  well-bred  mechan- 
ism that  left  one's  thoughts  free  for  immaterial  things. 
An  achieved  silence,  not  like  nature's  fallow  pauses, 
or  transitions,  yet  a  thing  to  rest  on  too.  I  would  find 
myself  at  dusk  standing  between  the  curtains  of  a  win- 
dow on  the  street,  looking  at  the  lights  shine  reflected 
in  long,  quivering  lines  on  wet  pavement  (it  rained 
nearly  every  day  whilst  I  was  there)  and  watching 
the  stream  of  carriages  that  took  men  home  to  their 
dinners  or  men  without  homes  to  their  clubs,  or  guests 
going  out  to  dine.  That  was  the  sort  of  pang  I  might 
have  felt  only  a  year  ago —  of  a  girl  with  no  dinner  in- 
vitations and  no  new  gowns  to  wear  if  she  had  them,  no 
personal  hold  on  one  of  the  throng  of  exciting  folk  that 

238 


THE  TWO  ESSIES 

passed  and  passed!  They  did  not  excite  me  now. 
Not  one  of  them  could  do  a  stranger  thing  than  I  had 
known,  nor  demand  in  me  a  more  difficult,  desperate 
counterpoise.  Nothing  in  humanity  could  involve  me 
deeper  than  that  soul's  adventure  in  one  of  the  lone- 
liest spots  on  earth.  Fashion  could  not  awe  me,  nor 
society  nor  the  world  cast  down  —  I  had  been  where 
men  and  women  suffer  mental  shame  and  say  to  one 
another  naked  things. 

Gowns  indeed  I  In  all  my  life  of  "  dressing  up  "  to 
be  looked  at  by  critical  eyes,  I  had  taken  no  joy  in 
anything  I  ever  wore,  as  in  those  machine-made 
dresses  bought  in  Boise  City  which  I  put  on  with  the 
pride  of  a  soldier  in  his  first  uniform.  This  is  not  pose, 
it  is  literal  truth.  I  loved  those  white  dresses  on  the 
mesa  that  were  the  sign  of  my  acceptance  for  a  serv- 
ice which  to  me  was  a  consecration.  I  had  tried  my 
hand  before  at  this  and  that :  my  time  had  never  been 
my  own.  Everybody  had  a  right  to  it  —  and  a  per- 
fectly good  right  —  but  system,  straight  responsibil- 
ity, definite,  consistent  orders,  had  never  been  mine. 
I  could  not  forget  the  one  experience  of  my  life  when 
a  fearful  trust  was  given  me  to  hold  alone,  not 
blindly,  —  that  would  have  meant  despair,  —  but  un- 
der orders  that  I  trusted  and  knew  I  could  obey. 

One  evening  after  the  tea-hour,  as  we  sat  alone 
waiting  for  carriage-wheels  to  announce  Uncle  Charles 
—  his  quiet  entrance  and  his  kind  hand-shake  (I  never 
saw  him  earlier  in  the  day) ;  seated  so,  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  fire.  Aunt  Essie  said  to  me :  — 

"  How  satisfying  this  is !  I  'm  so  tired  of  petting 
239 


EDITH  BONHAM 

up  myself  —  I  wish  I  had  some  one  else  to  pet. 
Charles,  of  course,  is  a  great  baby  too,  but  he  has 
people  to  do  everything  he  wants  —  Fancy  my  trying 
to  meddle  with  him  I  But  you,  my  dear  —  I  could  do 
heaps  of  things  for  you.  I  could  dress  you  for  one 
thing.  You  are  so  lovely  the  instant  you  get  the  right 
thing  on.  You  do  so  respond  to  clothes  1 " 

She  smiled  at  my  amusement,  but  it  seemed  she 
wanted  an  answer.  **Now,  are  n't  you  going  to  stay 
with  me  —  now  you  see  how  we  get  on  together? 
You  have  so  much  of  your  father  in  you,  and,  thank 
Heaven,  of  your  mother  too  I  You  have  his  imperious 
look  and  her  gentle  way.  The  last  I  believe  you  must 
have  acquired  somehow :  I  remembered  you  as  a 
rather  haughty  young  person  ;  you  were  a  trifle  saucy 
to  an  old  aunt  sometimes,  my  dear  1  Do  I  malign 
you?" 

*'  I  should  think  not,"  I  laughed.  "  But  sauciness 
gets  taken  out  of  one ;  I  could  n't  have  been  much 
like  papa  if  I  were  not  to  see  a  light  now  and  then 
borrowed  from  wiser  sources." 

"  Ah,  he  never  was  wise  —  he  never  borrowed  any 
more  wisdom  than  he  could  possibly  help.  But  he 
was  always  the  most  charming,  everywhere.  I  begin 
to  see  that  in  you  too ;  you  grow  upon  one  quite 
dangerously.  I  'm  getting  much  too  fond  of  you  — 
unless  you  are  going  to  stay  with  me,  always?  I 
should  not  be  so  dull  if  I  had  you  to  look  at  and  to 
listen  to." 

"  But  my  children,  dear  Aunt  Essie  I  I  have  two 
children  on  my  hands." 

240 


THE  TWO  ESSIES 

"  That  is  an  engagement  you  can  break,  can  you 
not,  now  that  your  own  life  is  so  changed?" 

**  My  life  is  not  so  much  changed  —  and  the  en- 
gagement is  with  one  who  is  not  here  now  to  release 
me." 

"You  mean  your  girl  friend  who  died  ?  But,  my 
dear,  that  is  fantastic.  Her  children  have  a  father, 
have  n't  they  ?  Is  he  quite  without  means  of  caring 
for  them?" 

"  Not  without  material  means.  Otherwise  there  is 
only  the  grandmother,  who  is  old  and  very  frail ;  a 
breath  would  blow  her  away." 

"  Still,  I  think  you  are  quixotic.  I  distrust  any  re- 
lation which  is  not  counted  natural  by  ordinary 
standards.  It 's  unnatural  for  a  young  woman  like 
you  to  give  her  best  years  to  the  children  of  another 
woman,  even  a  dear  friend." 

"  It  may  be  unnatural  in  some  cases.  In  my  own 
case  it  comes  very  direct ;  I  find  it  quite  simple,  and 
I  love  the  call.  I  love  the  children  —  the  little  girl 
especially.  I  am  unable  to  think  of  my  life  going  on 
apart  from  her  now." 

"  But  how  extraordinary  ! "  said  Aunt  Essie.  "You 
talk  like  one  who  is  dreaming.  It  is  not  real  life." 

"  I  am  sorry  if  I  cannot  make  you  see  it  is  life  to 
me.  As  for  dreaming  —  do  you  despise  dreams?" 

"  I  lost  the  power  years  ago  to  have  any.  Except, 
now,  this  dream  of  having  you.  Don't  refuse  me, 
Edith ! " 

"  It  hurts  to  refuse  you  —  believe  me  it  hurts !  But 
it  would  be  worse  to  break  this  contract  which  I  de- 

241 


EDITH  BONHAM 

liberately  entered  into.  It  would  bring  injurious  re- 
actions. If  I  had  made  a  compact  with  you  first,  that 
could  not  have  been  broken  either." 

"  Ah,  don't  say  *  had '  —  am  I  too  old  for  a  young 
woman  to  love  me — for  a  brother's  child  to  be  partly 
mine?  I  shall  not  press  myself  upon  you  —  only  in 
externals  where  I  could  set  you  free.  I  like  your  not 
caring  how  you  dress ;  I  know  how  you  must  have 
been  teased  about  your  looks,  living  all  your  days 
with  those  silly  artists —  You  should  forget  your 
looks  with  me :  I'd  attend  to  them  I  You  are  a  thinker 

—  I  feel  in  you  a  certain  greatness,  child.  You  were 
meant  for  a  great  part  in  life.  I  want  to  take  you 
into  the  world  and  show  you  people  who  don't  ex- 
plode with  the  first  idea  that  comes  into  their  heads. 
I  want  to  show  you  to  them  I  I  should  be  proud  in 
my  old  age  to  show  you: — *This  is  America;  this 
is  what  we  can  do  over  there  where  you  think  we  are 
so  cheap  I '  You  have  seen  Europe  with  your  father 

—  very  delightful,  no  doubt,  but  utterly  deplorable 
socially,  for  you.  I  could  take  you  into  a  society  that 
was  his  before  he  threw  it  all  away  for  a  palette  to 
stick  on  his  thumb.  Don't  I  know  the  talk  you  have 
been  immersed  in?  —  technique,  babble  of  the  work- 
shop—  You  belong  in  circles  where  the  talk  is  deep, 
and  simple,  and  strange  to  an  outsider — where  there 
is  a  reticence  and  a  grace  of  the  times  that  do  not 
come  again ;  where  elegance  is  understood,  and  man- 
ners have  become  a  manner  as  old  and  mysterious  as 
the  past  that  made  it.  Your  youth  has  been  wasted 
up  to  now  —  and  for  that  I  hold  myself  in  part  re- 

242 


THE  TWO  ESSIES 

sponsible.  But  it  is  not  too  late.  Having  been  wasted, 
will  you  go  now  and  throw  yourself  away?" 

"  I  am  not  thrown  away.  I  am  found  and  used," 
said  I,  —  "to  a  purpose  more  real  to  me  than  the  life 
you  show  me.  You  make  it  very  wonderful,  but  it 
takes  no  hold —  This  that  I  do  is  an  inevitable,  a 
fated  trust.  I  touched  it  timidly  at  first  fearing  all 
sorts  of  things,  then  I  took  it  in  my  hands — always 
fearful  —  then  it  took  hold  of  me,  and  I  belong  to  it 
now.  It  is  a  safe  and  a  blessed  future,  as  I  see  it.  All 
I  need  is  just  what  you  say  that  you  need — some  one 
to  pet  who  is  not  yourself.  In  my  case  of  course  there 
is  the  danger — it  may  not  last." 

Here  a  message  interrupted  to  say  that  Uncle 
Charles  had  been  detained  downtown — would  not 
dine  with  us  that  evening.  .  .  .  "What  does  that 
mean — *it  may  not  last'?"  Aunt  Essie  resumed 
when  the  door  had  closed. 

"  The  child  is  her  father's  and  he  may  marry  again. 
And  his  second  wife  will  replace  me  with  his  children." 

"Good  Heavens  1"  cried  Aunt  Essie;  "and  you 
dare  to  take  those  children  seriously  —  like  this  ? 
And  what  is  the  man  himself,  for  mercy's  sake  I" 

"  He  is  like  other  men,"  I  said.  "  He  will  probably 
marry.  So  I  have  no  time  to  lose.  I  must  not  waste 
a  month,  a  day  —  doing  what  I  hope  to  do  for  this 
child  —  though  it's  done  mostly  in  the  way  she  is 
made.  I  shall  try  to  keep  hands  ofl  her  that  are 
clumsy  or  not  clean." 

"What  is  this  child — you  mean  the  little  girl,  I 
suppose  ? " 

243 


EDITH  BONHAM 

"Oh,  she*s  a  type — as  pure  as  any  of  your  exclu- 
sive circles  can  show,  and  she  is  'America'  too.  I 
find  refreshment  in  the  study  of  her  mind,  as  deep 
and  strange  as  any  I  can  imagine  in  the  society  you 
speak  of,  and  I  am  proud  to  be  given  the  trust  of 
guiding  it.  It  is  not  simple,  and  I  cannot  see  either 
why  it  is  quixotic.  I  think,  sometimes  :  —  suppose  I 
had  married  and  died  and  left  a  child ! " 

*'  You  make  me  shudder  I "  cried  Aunt  Essie.  "  I  'm 
afraid  for  you.  There  is  in  every  one  of  us  Bonhams 
a  streak  of  wild  exaggeration  that  borders  on  insanity 
—  the  passion  of  one-ideaed  folk  wherever  you  find 
them.  We  are  not  responsible.  Your  father  had  it  — 
fancy  his  throwing  away  his  life  as  he  did !  /  had  it 
— you  can  never  know  about  that,  though.  I  em- 
braced an  idea,  the  wrong  one,  of  course,  —  and,  well ; 
I  threw  away  what  I  had  not  the  courage  to  think  I 
could  meet  as  it  deserved.  It  was  madness — and 
cowardice.  I  see  you  at  least  are  not  a  coward,  but 
you  are  a  gambler  of  the  wildest  sort.  You  stake  these 
years  of  your  life,  —  the  last  years  of  your  youth,  my 
dear!  —  on  the  children  of  a  dead  woman  and  a  liv- 
ing man  —  who  may  take  them  from  you  any  day. 
I  pray  it  may  be  soon  —  and  then  we  shall  see ! " 

"  If  it  should  be  too  soon  he  shall  not  have  them. 
I  will  not  give  them  up  to  a  woman  who  would  marry 
him  too  soon!'' 

"Ah,  bless  you,  they  do  anything!  The  nicest 
creatures  you  can  imagine  will  marry  a  man  before 
his  'shoes  are  old'  —  that's  the  world,  my  dear.  You 
dream  and  forget  about  human  nature,  but  it  does 

244 


THE  TWO  ESSIES 

not  change,  cultivate  it  all  you  may.  My  own  hus- 
band is  indifferent  fond  of  me,  but  if  I  were  to  let  go 
—  drop  out  of  the  procession  —  he  would  travel  on 
with  another,  just  as  soon  as  he  found  one  he  liked 
well  enough  to  take  instead  of  his  chance  of  a  better 
one.  And  what  is  it  to  me  I  I  merely  thank  Heaven 
we  are  not  men  ourselves." 

Aunt  Essie,  I  think,  made  a  great  mistake  classing 
her  husband  with  men  in  general ;  no  wife  can  afford 
to  do  that.  It  was  one  of  her  many  mistakes  that  usu- 
ally did  not  meet  their  punishment  as  this  had,  one 
could  see,  in  her  loss  of  any  real  influence  with  Uncle 
Charles.  She  might  have  made  him  a  brighter,  bigger 
man,  but  hardly  a  kinder  one.  She  had  paid  him  the 
supreme  compliment  of  marrying  him  —  she  might 
at  least  have  tried  to  understand  him.  In  the  one 
week  I  stayed  with  them  he  seemed  to  me  much 
more  than  a  check-book,  —  a  major-domo,  an  efficient 
eye  to  her  equipages  and  traveling  arrangements,  an 
amiable  presence  at  her  table.  She  made  him  her 
foil  in  conversation  and  sometimes  her  butt.  It  was 
quite  terrifying  to  watch  the  light  play  of  her  words 
pinning  him  to  his  background  of  silence.  She  never 
actually  drew  blood,  but  as  a  spectacle  it  was  no 
pleasure  to  her  guests  —  I  thought  his  by  far  the 
better  part ;  passive,  patient,  serene  —  abiding  her 
words  in  silence,  but  not  a  negligible  silencer 

But  Aunt  Essie  was  too  restless  to  understand  her- 
self or  other  people  very  deeply.  Hers  seemed  to  me 
an  empty  life  made  of  everything  the  world  gives 
and  takes  away.  The  shadow  of  a  life,  or  rather  a  life 

245 


EDITH  BONHAM 

all  light,  revealment  without  revelation,  without  the 
softening  mystery  of  nature's  shadows,  and  the  defi- 
nitions of  things  as  they  are. 

'*  What  did  you  think  of  that  woman  I  sent  to  you 
with  a  message  in  Idaho  ?  I  hoped  it  might  remind 
you  that  you  had  a  few  relatives  left  in  the  East. 
Was  she  as  much  of  a  fool  as  she  appeared  to  be  ? 
Of  course  no  wise  person  would  have  listened  to  me 
with  the  least  intention  of  doing  what  I  asked ! " 

**  She  did  do  what  you  asked  —  and  had  no  right 
to  ask.  She  is  not  a  woman  easily  intimidated.'* 

"  No  right  to  ask  I  Who  had  a  better  right,  I  should 
like  to  know  ?  " 

"  Some  one  who  had  taken  the  pains  to  know  me, 
and  to  remember  that  I  am  a  woman  of  —  " 

*'  Don't  repeat  to  me  your  age,  child.  Think  what 
it  does  to  my  own  I  We  are  heart  to  heart,  and  I 
hope  you  have  a  memory  that  can  be  trusted  to  do 
some  wise  editing." 

"  I  hope  so  ;  besides,  we  are  going  to  have  time  to 
live  things  down.  I  was  far  from  resenting  your  mes- 
sage—  I  was  flattered,  but  it  did  amuse  me." 

"Well ;  did  it  inconvenience  you  any?" 

"That  would  be  a  long  story,"  I  said.  "  But  please 
don't  set  Mrs.  Forth  down  for  anything  like  what  you 
said  in  your  haste  —  " 

"  Granted,  granted !  It  does  n't  matter — ske  does  n't 
matter.  I  thought  her  a  trifle  spoiled  as  garrison  ladies 
must  be,  when  they  are  pretty  —  She  told  me  inter- 
esting things  about  the  West.  Come,  we  must  dress 
—  I  hope  I  have  n't  taken  away  your  appetite." 

246 


THE  TWO  ESSIES 

Aunt  Essie  was  silent  during  dinner  and  rather 
cold,  but  1  knew  she  could  not  have  taken  offense  at 
any  words  of  mine,  nor  was  likely  to  be  preoccupied 
by  anything  she  herself  had  said.  In  her  life  she  must 
have  been  too  often  unguarded,  with  the  right  per- 
sons, to  waste  time  on  afterthoughts.  I  only  feared 
she  might  have  been  more  deeply  hurt  by  my  rejec- 
tion of  her  plans  for  me  than  it  seemed  possible  to 
imagine ;  for  they  must  have  been  so  lately  born, 
vividly  as  she  had  presented  them. 


XXII 

More  people  were  coming  home  every  day  from  the 
country  and  from  abroad,  many  of  them  old  acquaint- 
ances or  friends  of  papa's.  Aunt  Essie  asked  whom, 
mentioning  names,  I  would  like  to  see ;  I  thought 
she  seemed  relieved  when  I  begged  to  see  as  few  as 
possible,  as  if  the  prospect  of  entertaining  in  my  be- 
half had  bored  her.  Essie  was  at  the  house  almost 
every  day,  and  at  luncheon  there  was  nearly  always 
a  guest  or  two  added  casually  to  our  number.  I  en- 
joyed the  well-bred  faces  and  well-bred  talk  —  Aunt 
Essie's  talk  the  cleverest  and  Essie's  face  the  pretti- 
est, as  it  seemed  to  me.  But  in  each  person  present 
there  was  a  something  subtly  satisfying,  distinctive 
in  her  own  particular  way.  So,  after  making  an  ex- 
cuse of  our  mourning  to  see  no  one,  when  it  came  to 
really  seeing  those  whom  Aunt  Essie  selected  to  ask, 
I  enjoyed  meeting  them  immensely. 

One  day,  she  said  abruptly,  after  the  last  guest 
had  departed,  **  Essie,  my  dear,  I  wish  you  would  go 
too  —  you  will  have  Edith  all  to  yourself  to-morrow ; 
this  is  my  last  day  and  I  've  saved  up  something  to 
say  to  her  by  ourselves.  So  be  of!  with  you  like  a 
dear!" 

Essie's  eyes  narrowed  a  trifle  :  she  never  enjoyed 
liberties  nor  being  bounced  like  this,  but  she  showed 
no  annoyance.  Later  she  retaliated  by  commenting 

248 


THE  TWO  ESSIES 

on  the  speech  with  the  remark  that  it  was  odd  Aunt 
Essie,  after  all  the  good  company  she  was  supposed 
to  have  seen,  should  not  have  better  manners. 

It  was  nothing  new  Aunt  Essie  had  saved  up.  She 
merely  wished  to  sound  my  resolution  once  more 
as  to  renouncing  the  world,  as  she  chose  to  call  it, 
and  burying  myself  in  the  flower  of  my  days.  But 
her  world,  I  said,  was  not  for  me.  I  preferred  my 
"gamble."  And  for  that  matter,  the  existence  of  any 
natural  mother  was  a  gamble  for  the  life  of  her  child, 
from  the  hour  of  its  birth.  Character  was  the  next 
risk  that  parents  had  to  take ;  marriage,  for  a  girl, 
grown  to  womanhood,  was  the  greatest  gamble  of  all. 
But  what  we  win  goes  on  and  on,  and  what  we  lose 
—  well,  there  still  was  time,  some  good  years  yet  for 
the  game  of  playing  mother  to  Phoebe. 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  all  that  time, 
up  there  in  a  farmhouse  on  the  Hudson  ?  You  can't 
spend  it  all  on  a  child  unless  you  smother  her  to 
death.  What  are  you  going  to  do  to  keep  yourself 
alive?" 

"  I  have  a  plan,"  I  said.  "Perhaps  it  is  too  soon  to 
speak  of  it,  but  you,  of  course,  are  the  first  one  to 
whom  I  should  speak,  and  you  can  help  me.  Aunt 
Essie.  I  need  your  help." 

I  thought  that  I  might  surprise  her,  but  I  had  not 
expected  to  give  her  such  a  shock  as  evidently  I  had, 
by  the  news  that  papa's  friends,  some  of  the  cleverest 
who  were  writers  and  men  of  note,  had  broached  a 
scheme  for  collecting  his  letters  and,  with  the  consent 
of  his  children,  arranging  them  in  biographical  form 

249 


EDITH  BONHAM 

which  in  a  sense  would  be  autobiographical.  He 
would  tell  his  life-story  in  the  spontaneous  form  of 
letters  to  intimate  friends,  and  his  personality  (which 
was  the  greatest  thing  about  him)  would  be  manifest 
also  in  the  responses  these  letters  evoked  from  those 
who  had  known  him  closely.  Such  a  book  would, 
they  thought,  have  exceptional  value  because  of  his 
large  acquaintance  with  persons  of  distinction  and 
his  residence  in  many  places  of  interest  and  his  in- 
imitable power  of  illuminating  everything  his  words 
touched,  his  views  of  life  and  people  and  art  and 
nature,  everywhere. 

Aunt  Essie  threw  up  her  ringed  hands  in  despair. 
"  Merciful  Heavens,  this  is  what  comes  of  knowing 
those  awful  lits  1  I  would  n't  have  those  crazy  friends 
of  his  get  hold  of  his  private  letters  for  wide  worlds. 
You  know  what  they  would  do :  they  would  never  cut 
out  a  phrase  that  tickled  their  fancy  —  not  if  it  broke 
a  living  heart  —  or  slurred  an  old  friendship  in  the 
grave.  Copy,  copy,  that 's  all  they  would  care  about ! 
Your  father  was  as  reckless  as  I  am,  my  dear,  and 
much  crueler  —  without  knowing  it.  He  never  was 
cruel  on  purpose,  but  those  letters  would  make  him 
seem  so.  They  would  give  pain  to  hundreds  whom  he 
really  loved.  Bless  me,  I  am  his  sister,  but  how  do  I 
know  what  the  wretch  has  said  about  me  I  You  may 
be  sure  it  was  clever  enough.  I  made  mirth  for  him, 
and  he  was  my  despair.  So  it  went  in  our  family 
when  the  temperaments  began  to  get  in  their  work. 
What  is  love  where  there  are  tongues  !  Never,  never  I 
If  it  *s  done  it  will  be  over  my  dead  body." 

250 


THE  TWO  ESSIES 

I  assured  her  that  it  never  would  be  done  —  not 
while  any  one  was  living  of  his  contemporaries  or 
their  children.  I  had  seen  to  that  effectually.  For,  of 
course,  his  children  would  not  consent.  Not  although 
they  had  been  asked  to  assist  in  the  editing  —  As  to 
the  letters,  this  plan  had  startled  us,  Essie  and  me, 
into  seeing  the  necessity  of  collecting  them  if  pos- 
sible from  wherever  he  had  scattered  them  in  all  parts 
of  the  earth.  And  here  Aunt  Essie  might  help  us. 
Meantime,  I  begged  her  to  believe  that  the  scheme, 
so  far  as  his  friends  could  make  it  so,  had  been  a 
vast  compliment,  an  immense  appreciation,  presented 
with  much  more  delicacy  than  I  had  shown  in  pre- 
cipitately declining  it  —  in  Essie's  name  and  my  own. 
Essie  had  waited  doubtful  and  half  persuaded  by  Jack, 
who  saw  in  it  fame  for  papa  of  a  fresh,  unexpected 
kind  that  would  astonish  everybody  ;  he  looked  for- 
ward to  wonderful  reviews,  and  perhaps  to  some 
money  for  papa's  daughters.  I  did  not  blame  him. 
But  I  crushed  the  plan  at  once,  Essie  consenting  and 
much  relieved,  I  could  see,  at  the  stand  I  took.  But 
even  she  was  astonished  when  I  said  that  I  myself 
would  undertake  this  work  for  the  sake  of  papa's 
memory,  though  the  publication  of  it  none  of  us 
would  ever  see. 

**  And  yoiL  will  read  those  letters,  you  scamp  !  I  see 
what  will  become  of  us  all :  You  '11  read  us  like  a 
novel  of  Bulwer's  time  ;  you'll  satirize  us  —  " 

"  I  shall  love  you  all !  "  I  cried  ;  '*  I  have  read  his 
letters,  some  of  them  written  with  all  that  gay  excess 
of  spirits  that  you  fear  so  much.  When  they  are  read 

251 


EDITH  BONHAM 

—  fifty  or  sixty  years  from  now  —  they'll  be  a  most 
wonderful  picture  of  New  York  and  London  in  the 
days  when  you  were  all  young,  and  cleverer  than 
any  one  living  now.  And  I  have  read  other  letters 
of  his  that  were  not  written  to  be  clever  —  written 
with  all  the  best  that  was  in  him." 

She  looked  at  me  anxiously :  **  Were  those  family 
letters?'' 

I  had  to  answer,  after  the  jar  I  had  given  her ;  I 
saw  she  was  deeply  stirred,  her  past  torn  up  before 
her  eyes  in  ways  that  to  her  might  seem  terrible. 
"They  were  his  letters  to  mamma:  she  left  them 
labeled,  'Your  father's  letters  to  me  between  1840 
and  1859.'  We  thought  it  seemed  like  a  message. 
They  were  in  her  old  desk  found  when  we  carted 
everything  out  of  the  studio.  I  have  only  just  read 
them  myself." 

"You  have  just  read  them  —  in  this  house?" 

I  answered  :  "  Yes  ;  in  my  bed  —  and  slept  with 
them  beside  my  pillow." 

"  He  would  have  been  a  perfect  lover,"  she  sighed. 
**  Poor  fellow  1  but  what  a  husband  I " 

I  protested.  "Oh,  Aunt  Essie,  can't  you  see? — 
that  was  why  she  wanted  us  to  read  those  letters. 
She  was  too  proud  to  accept  sympathy  even  of  her 
daughters  for  what  she  knew  we  must  remember  of 
the  drudgery  of  her  life.  This  was  her  one  piece  of 
vainglory,  her  complete  and  satisfying  boast.  So  she 
was  loved  —  as  few  women  have  been  loved  —  that 
covered  all  the  cost." 

"  At  least  he  never  put  another  in  her  place,  thank 
252 


THE  TWO  ESSIES 

God ! "  said  Aunt  Essie.  *'  I  don't  know  that  it  was 
constancy ;  he  had  a  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things. 
He  would  have  hated  the  anti-climax.  Well,  welll 
no  wonder,  with  that  message  from  your  poor  roman- 
tic mother,  you  would  n't  listen  to  me.  Your  world 
is  the  same  as  hers,  eh  ?  *  Love  is  best  I  *  But  where 
does  your  lover  come  in  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  lover  of  Phoebe :  to  love  is  better  than 
to  be  loved.  That  was  my  mother's  message." 

"  StufE  and  nonsense  I  Her  lover  could  make  love 
in  the  words  of  a  poet,  but  he  would  ask  his  Phyllis 
to  fetch  his  slippers.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  him  1 " 

**  Very  likely,  and  what  of  it  ?  My  little  love  shall 
fetch  my  slippers  because  it  is  best  for  her,  but  when 
it  comes  to  the  fun  of  life,  is  n't  it  all  in  the  things  we 
do  for  them? — the  things  you  wanted  to  do  for  me, 
dear  Aunt  Essie,  —  which  I  am  too  old  for  now,  alas  I " 

"  You  talk  all  around  and  over  me,  but  it  comes 
to  the  same  thing :  false  economy.  Nature  protests. 
You  throw  away  a  heart  of  gold  —  you  refuse  to 
bear  more  beautiful  children  into  the  world  and 
double  up  on  another  woman's  child  who  would  get 
on  just  as  well  without  you.  If  she  's  so  remarkable, 
hands  can't  make  nor  mar  her.  No ;  you  are  a  strange 
sport  for  us  Bonhams  to  produce.  You  must  throw 
back  to  the  Quaker  Gurneys.  There  was  never  any- 
thing like  you  among  us  until  they  came  into  the 
game." 


XXIII 

That  was  my  visit  in  New  York,  memorable  for  cer- 
tain talks,  —  after  the  summer  of  inhuman  silences 
and  infernal  misunderstandings.  These  talks  enriched 
the  winter  that  followed  with  more  silences,  not  in- 
human, with  a  few  misunderstandings  that  did  not 
matter.  For  the  basis  was  sound  and  true. 

I  had  ample  occupation  all  day  in  the  children, 
and  in  the  evenings,  the  long  winter  evenings  begin- 
ning after  our  six  o'clock  supper,  I  had  papa's  letters 
to  live  with ;  actually  a  life  and  a  story,  or  many 
stories,  in  themselves ;  while  Mr.  Aylesford  dozed  in 
his  chair,  and  dear  Mrs.  Aylesford,  tired  of  knitting, 
went  to  the  sofa  and  lay  down,  with  her  faint  smile 
of  apology  up  into  my  face  as  I  spread  the  afghan 
over  her  and  shaded  her  face  from  the  lamplight. 
She  would  close  her  eyes,  but  I  do  not  think  she 
slept.  Then  I  would  take  out  my  bundles  of  letters. 
I  kept  them,  the  ones  under  consideration,  in  two 
boxes.  Those  I  meant  to  suppress  were  in  one  box  ; 
those  that  needed  going  over  carefully  were  in  a 
second  box ;  others  that  seemed  perfect  just  as  they 
were,  I  carried  off  as  jewels  and  put  in  a  safer  place. 

There  was  no  haste  about  this  work.  It  was  scarcely 
in  fact  begun,  as  I  had  only  a  small  proportion  of  what 
must  have  been  the  bulk  of  his  correspondence  to 
work  upon.    Aunt  Essie  had  promised  to  help  me 

254 


THE  TWO  ESSIES 

collect — but  her  promises  were  never  very  promptly 
kept.  She  proclaimed  her  wisdom  in  never  setting 
her  hand  to  paper,  never  trusting  the  dearest  friend 
she  had  with  anything  personal  in  a  letter ;  but  I  fear 
it  was  not  so  much  wisdom  as  laziness.  It  was  cer- 
tainly very  inconvenient  for  her  friends  when  they 
asked  her  for  direct  answers  that  could  not  be  tele- 
graphed. 

My  letters  afforded  a  kind  of  research  which  I 
found  intensely  interesting  and  very  revealing  in 
many  directions,  and  it  struck  a  truer  balance  in 
some  cases  where  I  had  judged  rashly  or  in  igno- 
rance. There  were  stacks  of  Captain  Nashe's  letters 
preserved  with  the  care  they  richly  deserved.  What 
an  ardent,  a  brilliant  youth  I  I  believed  better  of  his 
motives,  too,  when  it  came  to  the  story  of  his  Italian 
campaigns  written  in  haste,  without  premeditation, 
with  passion  and  plain  sincerity,  and  with  surpris- 
ingly little  vanity.  It  seemed  when  he  really  had 
done  things  he  had  not  boasted.  I  saw  that  papa,  no 
doubt,  had  been  as  much  pained  as  we  young  ones 
were  disgusted  with  his  old  friend's  deterioration.  A 
splendid  figure,  of  the  days  when  his  own  life  had 
been  full  of  enthusiasm  and  illusion  and  hope,  come 
to  the  very  rags  and  dregs  of  romance.  I  should 
never  though  be  able  to  understand  his  wanting  the 
captain  for  a  companion  on  that  last  journey,  unless 
it  were  simple  magnetism,  the  force  of  a  vitally  strong, 
self-willed  man  acting  upon  one  whose  will  was  slack- 
ening, whose  trust  in  his  own  physical  powers  had 
passed  into  a  longing  for  another's  strength  to  lean  on. 

255 


EDITH  BONHAM 

And  Aunt  Essie!  Before  the  winter  was  far  ad- 
vanced I  had  come  with  consternation  upon  the  cause 
why  her  hands  went  up  and  she  had  cried,  *'Over 
my  dead  body !"  —  It  was  her  living  heart  I  had  be- 
fore my  eyes,  in  certain  old  letters  of  her  youth  which 
papa  had  carelessly,  inexcusably  preserved  —  or  not 
destroyed.  If  mamma  by  any  possibility  had  ever 
opened  his  letters,  or  could  have  suspected  what 
these  were,  she  would  have  burned  them  years  ago. 
.  .  .  Here  I  read,  in  her  own  reckless  words  to  a  be- 
loved brother,  before  his  own  marriage,  when  she 
was  his  most  intimate  friend,  what  had  been  the 
"idea"  she  took,  —  "the  wrong  one,  of  course"; 
what  had  been  the  "madness,  the  cowardice"  of  her 
choice,  —  refusing  to  believe  she  could  meet  a  certain 
decision  as  it  deserved.  She  could  say,  if  it  were  any 
comfort  to  her  now,  "  *  When  I  was  fair  and  young  a 
poet  sang  of  me.' "  A  poet  young  himself,  not  yet 
come  into  his  kingdom,  but  long  since  crowned  while 
in  his  prime  as  one  of  the  immortals.  He  had  never 
married,  and  she  had  married  wealth  and  Uncle 
Charles.  I  cannot  believe  she  had  not  known  the 
true  prince,  that  she  had  a  natural  preference  for  jig- 
tunes  and  the  smell  of  the  cooking-fires ;  but  all  the 
same,  "Alles  ist  weg,  weg,  wegl" 

I  seemed  to  see  it  all,  the  bland  years  of  childless 
luxury,  her  kind  and  patient  consort  seated  opposite, 
suspecting,  perhaps,  but  never  resenting  the  contrast 
forever  in  her  thoughts.  This  might  explain  if  it  did 
not  excuse  her  secret  irritation  when  the  ghost  of 
her  youth's  madness  would  rise  and  rise,  and  would 

256 


THE  TWO  ESSIES 

not  down.  No  one  but  herself  was  to  blame ;  but 
I  fancied  in  her  a  fatal,  besetting  humility  in  her 
youth,  which  I  had  seen  in  papa  sometimes  when  he 
grew  tired  of  himself  and  gave  in  to  the  cheaper  side 
of  him  like  a  willful  child  trying  to  be  naughty.  Those 
gay,  arrogant,  worldly  Bonhams  might  often  have 
shrunk  from  exerting  their  unexercised  ideality  and 
courage  (which  they  no  less  possessed)  in  the  face  of 
some  similar  demand. 

Aunt  Essie  never  wrote  me  a  word,  but  she  did 
not  forget.  She  must  have  stepped  into  a  bookseller's 
once  a  week  at  least  and  ordered  a  rare  bundle  sent 
up  to  me  in  my  "  farmhouse  on  the  Hudson."  I  could 
not  overhaul  letters  in  bed,  but  I  could  read — when 
that  household  of  children  and  tired  servants  and 
the  aged  were  at  rest.  Not  all  of  them  asleep  —  one 
I  suspected  of  waking,  watching  long  hours  uncom- 
plaining in  the  night.  It  was  useless  to  ask  Mrs. 
Aylesford  if  she  had  slept  or  if  she  felt  well;  she 
made  me  the  invariable  answer  which  I  knew  im- 
plied it  did  not  matter.  She  was  well,  I  think  she 
meant,  in  the  sense  that  all  was  as  well  with  her  now 
as  it  ever  would  be  again. 

I  suppose  we  knew  very  little  about  one  another 
in  those  separate  rooms  where  the  sleepers  lay,  with 
walls  between  that  they  could  have  spoken  through. 
I  knew  nothing,  for  instance,  and  never  have  known 
anything  worth  mentioning,  about  that  English- 
trained  nurse  of  the  Billy-boy's  who  called  herself 
Roberts.  It  was  part  of  her  training  that  we  should  n't 
know  nor  have  to  think  about  her  personally  so  long 

257 


EDITH  BONHAM 

as  she  performed  her  duties,  which  she  did  much 
better  than  any  of  us  could  have  told  her.  I  saw  no 
more  and  heard  no  more  of  Essie  than  if  I  had  been 
in  Idaho,  except  now  and  then  a  box  of  candy  from 
Jack,  and  a  promise  at  Christmas  (with  a  pretty  but 
very  cold  dressing-sacque),  from  Essie,  of  a  visit  in 
the  spring.  Casually  she  asked  if  I  were  doing  any- 
thing with  papa's  letters  ? 

I  might  as  well  stop  here,  with  this  part  of  my 
story,  for  everything  stopped  and  then  went  on  again 
on  a  lower  key  in  a  subdued  monotone  like  the  wind 
you  do  not  hear  or  the  mill  or  the  fountain  —  till  it 
ceases ;  like  the  scents  we  breathe  and  no  longer  know 
that  we  smell ;  like  the  lights  and  dusks  and  moon- 
rises  that  pass  unreckoned  when  we  see  them,  lost  in 
thought  and  alone.  All  by  degrees  make  up  an  at- 
mosphere of  the  spirit  to  which  the  insistent  brain  at 
last  submits ;  as  a  sleepy  child  resists  to  the  verge, 
sleep  that  creeps  over  him,  and  then  suddenly  yields 
all  at  once  and  is  in  a  deep  dream.  In  that  dream  we 
passed  our  first  spring  anniversary,  Nanny's  mother 
and  I.  There  had  been  the  same  wet  weather  of  a  year 
ago,  the  same  freezing  and  thawing  on  the  dreary 
roads,  the  dingy  snow-banks  up  the  lane,  the  con- 
finement to  piazzas  ;  but  it  was  so  complicated  with 
the  question  of  children's  colds  and  exercise  that  I 
spent  no  sentiment  nor  shivers  of  remembrance  upon 
it.  Wherefore  I  knew  that  my  mind  was  normal,  at 
least  so  far. 

So  these  days  passed  and  others  that  ushered  in 
the  time  of  blossoms  on  the  hillsides  that  we  saw 

258 


THE  TWO  ESSIES 

looking  across  the  river,  of  our  own  blossoms  that  we 
went  up  the  lane  to  see,  of  long  days  and  soft  spring 
nights,  and  visits  from  the  city.  Essie  and  Jack  were 
our  first  guests,  and  they  embellished  the  place  almost 
like  the  first  garden-flowers  themselves.  It  never 
failed  to  amaze  me  how  they  kept  so  smart  and  looked 
so  prosperous  on  three  children  and  scarcely  any- 
thing a  year.  Essie,  when  I  glanced  her  over,  senten- 
tiously  explained,  "Aunt  Essie  —  an  Easter-card  I  a 
sort  of  blotter  that  I  flipped  over  rather  scornfully, 
and  between  each  leaf,  if  you  please,  a  ten-dollar  bill  1 
That  was  a  great  stroke,  your  visit."  But  this  was  a 
side  of  my  sister  that  I  had  never  enjoyed.  This  was 
the  mother-hen  scratching  and  clucking  to  her  brood. 

I  liked  better  to  hear  her  discourse  of  her  children's 
characters  in  her  cozy,  impartial  way ;  and  I  listened 
eagerly  to  her  comments  on  Phoebe,  her  **  darling  " 
looks  and  manners  that  did  me  credit,  she  remarked. 
She  saw  the  real  distinction  of  her  little  face,  already 
so  full  of  significance  to  my  eyes.  Essie's  I  knew 
were  keener  and  absolutely  without  glamour. 

Aunt  Essie  had  not  missed  the  chance  of  Essie's 
visit  to  send  one  of  her  own  messages  that  she  never 
could  bring  herself  to  write.  "She  really  wants  you," 
Essie  urged.  "  She  has  taken  an  extraordinary  fancy 
to  you.  And  she  seems  worried  about  the  letters. 
What  a  mare's  nest  I  She  says  she  must  have  a  hand 
in  it  herself." 

"She  can't  possibly  have  a  hand  in  it  I  There  won't 
be  anything  done  if  she  does.  If  we  can't  be  trusted 
with  our  own   father's  letters   they   had  better  be 

259 


EDITH  BONHAM 

burned.  But  she  might  help  us  secure  them  from 
everybody  else  —  if  she  'd  only  do  that  1 " 

"She'll  do  it.  She'll  do  anything  if  you'll  go  and 
live  with  her  and  make  her.  She 's  just  a  spoiled 
child.  Why  don't  you  come  back  into  the  family  ? 
You  are  n't  an  Aylesford ;  you  belong  to  us." 

*'My  dear  Essie,  you're  a  mother :  you  know  how 
a  child  takes  hold  of  one.  What  should  I  do  —  what 
should  you  think  I  could  do  —  without  this  child  that 
you  can  see  is  the  main  thought  with  me  day  and 
night.  I  live  in  her  as  you  live  — ■" 

"  You  know  I  don't  —  live  in  my  children  like  that  I 
I  'm  doing  a  great  deal  better  by  them,  I  think,  just 
living  my  own  life  and  leaving  them  alone  a  good 
deal  of  the  time.  If  you  don't  want  to  give  up  these 
children  here,  why  not  go  and  stay  with  Aunt  Essie 
now  and  then  —  take  a  month  off  with  her  ?  Why 
give  her  up?'* 

"  Take  a  month  off  I  Have  you  ever  tried  teaching 
a  child  ?  It 's  only  a  little  you  can  do  each  day,  but 
you  have  to  keep  it  up ;  you  cannot  lose  the  thread. 
I  should  lose  everything  —  I  should  lose  my  senses 
—  if  I  lived  with  Aunt  Essie  the  whole  of  any  month, 
if  I  had  to  talk  all  the  time  about  papa  and  mamma 
and  her  theories  of  what  life  is,  or  ought  to  be.  She  's 
a  good  deal  better  than  her  theories,  but  she  has 
never  discovered  the  fact  herself." 

When  I  go  up  in  the  air  like  this,  Essie  is  calmer 
than  ever.  What  I  say  makes  no  impression  on  her 
mind,  but  she  is  impressed  by  the  fact  that  I  'm  need- 
lessly in  earnest  about  something  that  is  all  a  mys- 

260 


THE  TWO  ESSIES 

tery  to  her;  but  if  it  means  ** Hands  off  I"  that  she 
can  understand  and  act  upon  perfecdy  without  pique 
or  fuss. 

She  merely  asked,  "Weren't  you  rather  happy 
that  week  you  spent  with  her?'' 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "That  was  a  very  necessary  week 
all  around,  but  all  the  good  it  could  do  has  been 
done.  It  would  spoil  it  all  if  she  saw  too  much  of  me. 
Aunt  Essie  can't  stand  very  much  of  anybody  for 
long".  That 's  why  she  can't  keep  a  secretary." 

"  But  what  about  you  ?  Don't  you  ever  expect  to 
visit  anywhere?  Don't  you  want  anything  yourself? 
These  nice  old  people  here  are  bores  compared  to 
Aunt  Essie  I " 

"  And  the  place  is  a  bore,  compared  to  New  York. 
But  you  see  I  don't  compare  them." 

"  What  do  you  do  ?  What  do  you  think  about  when 
you  sit  here  "  (we  were  seated  under  the  willows  by 
the  mill  on  the  old  talking-stones)  "and  watch  the  ad- 
mirable Roberts  with  her  admirable  mending  sitting 
by  that  baby  sound  asleep  ?  " 

"  I  don't  watch  Roberts  much ;  she  does  n't  need  it." 

"  But,  Edith,  you  're  getting  thin  I  —  you  have  a 
cloistered  look.  Have  you  renounced  the  world  in 
any  form  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  derided,  "  in  the  form  of  cigarettes." 

Essie  had  noticed  that,  without  comment,  though. 
Now  she  asked  practically :  "  What  have  you  done 
with  Jack's  case?" 

"Jack's  easel  —  you  mean  the  Russian  silver?  — 
Well,  I  like  that  I  Is  Jack  an  Indian  giver  ?  " 

261 


EDITH  BONHAM 

"  No ;  but  I  am !  — and  if  it  is  n't  doing  you  any 
good  —  " 

"  When  was  it  yours,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  You 
nearly  boxed  his  ears  about  it,  if  I  remember." 

** That's  only  part  of  the  ceremony  of  gifts  with 
us.  I  always  relent  —  " 

"  Especially  when  he  gives  the  gift  to  some  one 
else!" 

"  It  was  all  in  the  family ;  but  what  did  you  do 
with  it?" 

"  Paid  a  debt  of  gratitude  that  was  personal  to 
myself." 

**  It  must  have  been  to  a  young  man.  '  Ladies/  I 
suppose,  don't  smoke  in  Idaho  ?  " 

"It  was  a  young  man,"  I  said. 

"  Has  he  got  anything  to  do  with  what  you  think 
about  in  this  place?  Who  was  he,  anyhow?" 

"  No  one  of  the  least  consequence  to  you  or  to  me. 
His  name  's  Dick  Grant.  You  can  write  to  him  — 
I  '11  give  you  his  address  — and  say  the  case  I  gave 
him  was  n't  mine  to  give  —  " 

"  Bah,  bah  !  "  cried  Essie,  quite  herself.  "  I  got  a 
rise  out  of  you,  anyhow.  You  're  not  quite  gone  to 
heaven  if  you  have  taken  the  veil.  ...  I  suppose 
you  think  about  Nanny  a  good  deal,  here  where  you 
were  together?  She  was  a  haunting  little  thing." 

"  She  rather  haunts  me,"  I  said. 

"  Nanny  was  really  the  fatality  of  your  life,"  Essie 
pronounced,  with  one  of  her  efforts  at  analysis. 

"  Oh,  no ;  papa  was  the  fatality  of  all  our  lives. 
He  was  the  most  helpless  and  the  most  powerful  one 

262 


THE  TWO  ESSIES 

of  the  family.  If  he  had  n*t  taken  a  notion  that  I  could 
paint,  for  instance,  I  should  never  have  seen  Nanny, 
nor  Idaho." 

" Did  you  really  like  it  out  there,  honestly?" 

*'I  hated  it,  and  so  did  Nanny.  But  it  'haunted' 
us  both.  It  has  tremendous  force,  concealed  some- 
how ;  things  may  happen  any  time,  but  you  don't 
know  what,  nor  where  to  expect  them.  It 's  like  a  sea 
sown  with  floating  mines,  innocent  of  its  own  terrors. 
You  may  go  safe  a  hundred  times  and  then  you  may 
strike  something  that  explodes  and  you  go  out  of 
sight" 

" Indeed  1"  said  Essie,  eyeing  me  narrowly.  "Did 
anything  explode  with  you  out  there?" 

Essie  can  root  anything  out  of  me,  if  she  really 
tries ;  also  she  is  safe  as  the  grave ;  and  she  would 
never  by  a  thousand  miles  get  the  measure  of  this 
that  had  happened  to  me,  this  explosion. 

**If  you  give  one  guess,  aloud,"  I  said,  "I  shall 
go  into  the  house  and  not  be  alone  with  you  again 
till  you  and  Jack  go  home." 

"  I  should  n't  have  to  give  more  than  one,"  she  said. 
"Not  that  I  should  think  of  mentioning  it  to  you." 

"  If  you  ever  mention  it  to  a  living  soul  it  had  bet- 
ter  be  me  I " 

"That's  all  right — I  know  you  trust  me,  though 
I  don't  know  why.  I  could  tell  you  perfecdy  well 
what  happened,  and  knowing  you  I  know  you  must 
have  taken  it  too  hard.  But  it 's  better  to  be  a  goose 
than  to  make  your  family  ashamed  of  you.  I  don't 
mind  your  taking  it  too  hard  1 " 

263 


EDITH  BONHAM 

"That's  why  I  trust  you.  But  leave  me  and  my 
floating  mines  alone  after  this,  please.  Everything 's 
exploded  that  can  explode.  I  'm  in  safe  waters  now." 

"  Safe  fiddlesticks  1  Once  a  goose  always  a  goose. 
But  a  silly  goose,  not  a  stupid  goose.'* 

**  Living  with  Aunt  Essie  would  not  prevent  any 
of  my  natural  silliness  from  overtaking  me.  Make 
that  plain  to  yourself,  and  make  it  plain  to  her  if  you 
can.  I  like  her  a  great  deal  more  than  you  do  —  so 
much,  in  fact,  that  I  should  n't  dare  to  live  with  her." 

"  You  '11  do  as  you  please,  of  course.  —  Only,  I 
don't  like  nuns  in  the  family,  cloistered  nuns." 


PART  VI 
MRS.  AYLESFORD 


XXIV 

Strawberries  were  ripe,  raspberries  still  clung  to 
their  white  cones,  but  were  turning  pink  and  prom- 
ised a  fine  crop.  Mrs.  Aylesford  took  more  interest 
in  house  matters  now  that  the  fruit-canning  and  pre- 
serving season  came  on.  I  learned  a  new  or  a  very- 
old  way  of  doing  up  strawberries  in  their  own  juice 
under  the  heat  of  the  sun.  They  were  set  out  in  large 
crockery  bowls  covered  by  a  pane  of  glass  and  ex- 
posed to  the  hottest  rays  all  day :  no  insects  nor  air 
nor  dust  could  get  in.  Drops  of  moisture  collected 
on  the  underside  of  the  glass,  but  evaporation  was 
slow,  and  hour  by  hour,  day  after  day,  the  delicious 
fruit  soothed  and  simmered  and  grew  richer  in  flavor, 
a  distillation  and  a  conservation,  the  very  poetry  of 
preserving.  Phcebe  was  discovered  one  day  alone  in 
the  garden,  violating  the  sanctity  of  that  pane  of 
glass,  and  popping  a  warm  berry  into  her  mouth  in 
hurried  ecstasy.  She  was  deeply  chagrined.  Her  face 
burned  crimson  with  shame  and  the  heat  of  the  sun 
where  we  stood.  She  eyed  me  shyly  with  one  sweet- 
ened finger  at  her  lips.  I  could  have  fallen  upon  her 
and  kissed  her ;  instead  I  marched  her  in  to  her 
grandmother  to  confess  what  she  had  done.  It  was  n't 
long  before  she  came  bouncing  out  again,  by  no 
means  covered  with  disgrace.  She  slipped  one  hand 
in  mine.    I  turned  it  over  and  examined  it. 

267 


EDITH  BONHAM 

"  It  is  n't  sticky,"  she  remarked.  *'  Grandma  washed 
it,  and  my  face.  She  kissed  me.  And  she  laughed 
and  cried — that  funny  way.  She  said  mamma  did 
that,  too,  when  she  was  a  litde  girl.  Took  strawber- 
ries. Was  mamma  naughty?" 

**  She  may  have  done  it  once,  but  she  would  n't  do 
it  again.  Or  grandmother  would  n't  have  laughed." 

"I'm  not  going  to  do  it  again,"  said  Phoebe,  quite 
contented  with  herself.  "I  said  so  to  grandmother." 

It  was  the  next  day  I  saw  grandmother  with  Phoebe, 
and  a  spoon,  slip  off  down  the  garden.  I  watched 
them  while  she  lifted  the  pane  of  glass  herself  and 
Phoebe  fished  out  a  spoonful  and  gazed  rapturously 
at  her  fond  confessor  while  the  celestial  morsel  found 
the  longest  way  down.  The  road  of  repentance  for 
Phoebe  would  be  a  primrose  path  if  grandmamma 
could  make  it  so. 

That  summer  Mr.  Aylesford  missed  his  usual  com- 
panion, after  supper,  when  he  went  out  to  see  how 
everything  was  getting  on.  Mrs.  Aylesford's  strength 
was  not  equal  to  making  the  rounds  of  the  place  with 
him  —  she  sat  wrapped  in  shawls  on  the  piazza  or 
wandered  very  slowly  up  and  down  ;  but  it  gave  her 
pleasure  to  see  us  go  forth,  Mr.  Aylesford  and  I,  with 
Phoebe  between  us  holding  a  hand  of  each.  I  learned 
to  know  the  vegetables  that  were  only  just  above 
ground,  never  having  seen  them  except  in  market- 
baskets  or  on  the  stalls.  I  studied  my  garden  calen- 
dar of  dates  for  the  flowers  coming  into  bloom  and 
for  the  wild  flowers  we  searched  the  fields  and  woods 
to  find.    One  afternoon  Mrs.  Aylesford  and  I  were 

268 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

hulling  strawberries  for  supper :  she  liked  to  do  little 
sitting-down  chores  for  Mary  Martin  who  was  always 
busy. 

What  was  it,  I  ventured  to  ask,  —  out  of  this  deep 
sense  of  peace,  —  that  had  brought  her  back  to  life, 
to  the  willingness  to  live  and  care  for  things  again? 

**Why,  the  children!"  she  answered  as  a  matter 
of  course.  **  When  I  heard  Phoebe  had  scarlet  fever 
and  nowhere  to  go  but  out  on  the  dry  land,  in  that 
deserted  place,  why,  it  went  through  me  like  a  knife. 
I  wasn't  feeling  much  of  anything  then,  but  I  felt 
that  1  We  never  quarantined  scarlet  fever  in  my  time. 
I  don't  think  it  was  called  contagious  like  measles  or 
small-pox.  But  I  knew  what  it  meant  to  be  packed 
of!  like  that,  in  that  wild  place  alone  with  only 
strangers,  afraid  to  go  near  you.  We  know  it  can't 
be  helped  when  people  avoid  us  in  sickness,  but  it 
does  hurt  the  feelings  to  be  cut  off — :it's  very  lone- 
some. I  've  been  through  it.  You  had  to  go  through 
all  that  alone  and  the  work  besides  —  up  nights  and 
no  one  to  rest  you  in  the  day.  And  this  house  doing 
no  good  to  anybody.  Her  grandmother — not  even 
knowing  the  child  was  dangerously  sick  I  That 
was  n't  your  fault.  It  was  because  I  had  crept  away 
and  people  were  taking  care  of  me.  I  had  n't  even 
offered  the  house  she  was  born  in  to  Nanny's  mother- 
less children  —  turned  out  on  the  bare  land.  It 
shocked  me  almost  to  death.  Perhaps  it  shocked 
me  to  life. 

"  I  got  up  next  morning  and  wrote  to  you,  and 
made  them  send  for  father  to  take  me  home.    He 

269 


EDITH  BONHAM 

used  to  come  to  see  me  at  the  sanatorium,  but  what 
could  he  do  !  —  it  was  forlorn  to  see  him ;  and  when 
he  was  n't  there  he  was  alone  with  Jonas  and  Mary. 
I  saw  all  of  a  sudden  how  he  was  aged  —  and  that 
was  another  shock.  But  it  did  me  good.  Coming 
home  did  me  good,  to  find  things  that  needed  look- 
ing after.  .  .  .  You  see  I  am  getting  stronger  all  the 
time?" 

I  did  not  see  it.  But  I  knew  the  thing  now  that  hurt 
her  and  took  her  strength  was  silent  worry,  not  con- 
nected with  death,  but  with  something  in  life  that  she 
could  not  understand;  something  that  came  much 
nearer  to  her  than  I  somehow  had  imagined  it  would. 
And  I,  who  loved  her  so,  had  been  fated  to  bring  it 
on  her !    And  I  could  never  tell  her  why. 

All  that  summer  and  all  the  fall  till  house  windows 
were  shut  and  we  no  longer  heard  that  lessening  roar, 
the  great  through  trains  went  crashing  past  our  sta- 
tion. I  should  n't  have  taken  the  Chicago  Limited, 
the  train  that  most  expressly  and  haughtily  thun- 
dered by  ;  but  any  train  would  have  done  that  was 
bound  West  far  enough  to  meet  a  vision  of  great 
plains  ringed  with  mountains  and  the  smell  of  dust 
and  sage  and  the  sound  of  the  desert  wind.  Nuns 
do  fret  at  their  narrow  cells,  and  I  can  answer  for 
them,  the  second  year  must  be  the  worst.  It  was  my 
second  year. 

Heretofore  in  our  life  there  had  been  always  the 
chance  of  adventure,  with  a  father  whose  mind  one 
could  never  predict  except  that  it  would  change.  All 

270 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

hope  of  change  was  over  for  me  when  I  refused  Aunt 
Essie's  offer  of  a  home  and  a  share  in  her  adventures 
—  which  I  had  never  despised  I  She  had  broken  up 
her  establishment  in  New  York  and  gone  abroad  in- 
definitely— and  of  course  she  never  wrote.  Tied  to 
two  children  and  two  aged  folk,  my  journeys  now 
must  be  the  famous  migration  from  "  the  blue  bed 
to  the  brown,"  and  my  adventures  those  of  the  life 
within  one's  self  which  cannot  be  revealed. 

That  winter  we  knew,  by  his  letters,  that  Douglas 
Maclay  was  in  Chicago  for  a  few  days.  The  old  people 
grew  excited,  awaiting  his  telegram  to  say  by  what 
train  he  should  arrive.  He  did  not  come.  His  next 
letter  was  from  on  board  the  Union  Pacific  westward- 
bound.  It  hurt  like  a  blow  —  my  poor  old  dears  I 
Mrs.  Aylesford  seemed  stunned.  They  held  him  in 
their  fond,  loyal  hearts  almost  as  a  son  ;  his  two  chil- 
dren were  under  their  roof,  whom  he  had  not  seen  in 
over  two  years  —  two  years  in  the  fall  I  What  did  it 
mean?  To  me  the  sight  of  their  consternation,  which 
they  were  too  proud  to  speak  of,  was  simply  ghastly. 
I  had  prepared  for  myself  the  spectacle —  long  drawn 
out  —  of  a  death-in-life  withdrawal  these  simple  hearts 
could  never  understand.  Their  daughter's  husband, 
the  father  of  her  children,  had  shaken  them  off  — 
and  the  children  —  like  a  last  year's  suit  of  garments 
good  enough  for  the  poor.  They  were  the  poor,  but 
they  were  proud. 

As  time  went  on  and  the  situation  did  not  clear  up 
to  a  mind  so  direct  in  its  cognizance  of  duties  and 
ties  of  blood  as  hers,  I  began  to  fear  the  perplexity 

271 


EDITH  BONHAM 

of  it  would  impair  in  a  manner  permanent  and  seri- 
ous what  little  strength  dear  Mrs.  Aylesford  had  left. 
Easy  as  her  flow  of  words  could  be  on  any  simple 
subject  she  was  not  shy  of,  discussion  of  conduct 
in  those  she  loved,  or  subtleties  of  her  own  relations 
with  them,  I  conceived  would  be  impossible  to  her. 
I  hardly  imagined  that  she  and  Mr.  Aylesford  said 
more  to  each  other  than  she  said  to  me.  .  .  . 

Another  year  might  have  passed  before  she  said 
anything  at  all  that  I  can  remember,  on  this  wearing 
subject  that  was  always  between  us  —  wearing  her 
out  before  my  eyes.  I  think  it  was  now  four  years  1 
—  can  it  be  believed  ?  —  yet  the  bitterness,  the  dead- 
lock was  not  mine.  I  must  suppose  he  meant  me  to 
feel  that  I  had  created  it  in  him.  But  what  could  I  do  ? 

That  day  she  said  to  me  with  effort,  but  straight- 
forward as  she  always  was  :  — 

**Has  Douglas  Maclay  changed,  I  wonder?  He 
used  to  make  a  great  deal  of  Phoebe.  I  thought  he 
was  a  good  father.  And  his  letter  to  me  about  the 
children  coming  here  was  so  kind  and  affectionate  I 
I  have  kept  it  all  this  time  —  it  is  very  long  ago  !  It 
makes  me  sad  to  read  it.  He  writes  to  father  now  and 
then  on  business ;  he  does  n't  explain  anything  why 
he  does  n't  come,  but  he  sends  messages  to  me  just 
as  if  he  had  n't  acted  so  strange  !  I  never  heard  any- 
thing like  it — I  never  did  1  There 's  death  in  families 
and  disagreements,  but  he  doesn't  seem  put  out 
about  anything?  Can  you  think  what  it  could  mean, 
Edith?" 

I  groaned  in  my  heart  as  I  lied  to  her  —  but  it  was 
272 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

not  all  a  lie  :  "I  know  him  no  better  than  you  do, 
dear  Mrs.  Aylesford.*' 

"Why,  it's  dreadful  the  way  the  children  are  go- 
ing to  forget  him.  Little  Billy  would  n't  know  him 
if  they  met  on  the  road  —  even  Roberts  would  n't 
know  the  father  of  the  child  she  is  taking  care  of." 

"  Phoebe  will  not  forget  him,"  I  said.  **  They  are 
great  friends  in  their  letters,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  Phoebe's  letters,  any 
more.  She  never  shows  me  any.  I  don*t  know  if  it 's 
an  accident  or  if  you  think  she  had  better  not  show 
them?" 

These  letters  of  Douglas  to  Phoebe  had,  it  is  true, 
become  an  embarrassment  between  us,  in  a  manner 
most  natural,  if  anything  could  be  called  natural  in 
his  relations  to  us  and  to  his  children.  When  he  first 
began  to  write,  he  tried  to  stoop  his  mind  and  style 
to  hers  and  I  could  feel  a  man's  diffidence  in  the 
attempt,  conscious  of  a  grown  person  looking  over 
the  child's  shoulder,  as  it  were.  Phoebe  at  that  time 
could  not  read  "  writing  "  — not  her  father's  writing. 
He  did  not  do  it  well,  and  I  pitied  him.  After  a  while 
he  seemed  to  limber  up  to  his  work,  and  the  letters  be- 
gan to  show  some  ease  and  pleasure  in  the  perform- 
ance. At  this  time  they  were  treated  as  family  letters. 
So  few  things  happened  to  any  of  us  that  anything, 
even  a  letter,  that  happened  to  one  was  shared  as  far 
as  possible.  But  by  degrees,  Phoebe's  father  had 
gained  proficiency  in  a  way  of  writing  to  us  both  — 
to  me  as  well  as  to  Phoebe  —  accepting  the  fact  that 
I  was  always  looking  over  her  shoulder.  It  was  very 

273 


EDITH  BONHAM    ' 

delicately  done,  but  not  so  obscurely  that  no  one 
else  could  have  seen  that  they  were  no  longer  letters 
to  be  passed  from  hand  to  hand.  This  is  saying  more 
than  would  seem  necessary  about  anything  so  simple 
as  the  "  Dan  and  Trinket  stories,"  as  we  called  them, 
which  contained  the  gist  of  the  whole  matter.  It  was 
about  this  time,  however,  that  I  ceased  to  remind 
Phoebe  that  she  had  not  shown  grandmamma  papa's 
last  letter.  Grandmamma,  of  course,  had  craved  to 
see  it  and  had  observed  the  omission.  I  was  accus- 
tomed lightly,  at  table  when  Mr.  Aylesford  was  pres- 
ent, to  retail  interesting  parts  of  their  contents.  Mrs. 
Aylesford  had  noticed  all  this  in  silence ;  it  must  have 
piqued  her  and  worried  her  also. 

So  I  took  a  sudden  resolution  :  whatever  the  effect 
of  the  letters  themselves,  it  could  not  be  worse  than 
this  brooding  and  speculating  over  the  reason  why 
they  were  withheld.  Also  I  was  curious  to  see  if  she 
would  see  what  I  had  thought  that  I  could  see.  I 
brought  her  the  whole  packet  (saved  by  Phoebe)  be- 
ginning with  the  first  of  the  Dan  and  Trinket  stories. 
I  made  no  explanation  of  why  they  had  not  been 
shown  except  one  that  was  a  subterfuge  and  not 
sincere. 

"  You  see  he  has  become  a  story-teller,"  I  prefaced. 
"  I  hope  he  won't  feel  shy  if  his  audience  is  enlarged. 
He  is  used  to  me  always  looking  over  Phoebe's  shoul- 
der," —  I  repeated  this  idea,  —  *'  I  'm  hardly  more  of 
a  grown-up  than  she  when  it  comes  to  these  stories." 

Mrs.  Aylesford  looked  at  me  in  surprise.  "  A  story- 
teller ?  I  never  supposed  he  had  much  imagination." 

274 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

**  That 's  why  I  think  he  might  be  shy  about  trying 
to  use  what  he  has :  like  any  one  who  begins  a  story 
made  up  for  a  child,  when  grown-ups  come  and 
listen." 

**I  don't  think  he  would  mind  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Aylesford. 

Dan  and  Trinket  were  the  names  of  his  saddle- 
horses  which  he  used  alternately,  Dan  for  long,  hard 
trips,  Trinket  for  riding  about  the  mines.  He  had 
developed  the  habits  of  each  of  these  animals  and 
his  own  relations  with  them  into  almost  a  set  of 
fables  —  to  our  bursts  of  applause  in  Phoebe's  words 
in  her  answering  letters.  "  More,  more,  please,  about 
Dan  and  Trinket,  papal" 

These  letters  I  had  encouraged  Phoebe  to  save,  for 
they  were  becoming  valuable  in  themselves  :  pictures 
of  the  high  trails  and  the  mountain-pastures  up  near 
timber-line  in  sight  of  the  snow-capped  peaks  of  the 
Saw  Tooth  Range.  Some  of  them  were  quite  heart- 
breaking in  the  middle,  and  we  had  to  look  ahead  and 
reassure  ourselves  as  to  the  end  before  we  could  go 
on  without  tears.  But  in  all  the  stories  of  the  pastures 
or  the  camps  or  the  trails.  Trinket  was  the  star-lady 
and  Dan  supported  her  in  the  leading  male  r61e.  His 
was  more  of  a  character-part ;  he  was  not  represented 
as  a  hero.  He  was  the  horse  the  other  man  rode 
when  his  master  went  off  with  a  companion  and 
camp-mate  on  one  of  his  long  trips.  No  one  ever 
rode  the  star-lady  but  himself ;  she  was  never  to  be 
sold,  never  loaned  to  any  one  (this  we  were  repeatedly 
assured  of).  She  was  the  kind  of  creature  only  one 

275 


EDITH  BONHAM 

person  should  handle  —  because  she  had  an  organ- 
ization which  whoever  rode  her  needed  to  study ;  as 
fine  as  a  woman's  and  more  sensitive  than  most 
women's.  There  was  nothing  like  her  in  the  Terri- 
tory. Not  that  she  was  n't  a  trifle  shrewish  —  she  was 
out  of  her  proper  element  in  a  rough  mining-camp. 
The  altitude  got  on  her  nerves.  Dan  got  on  her 
nerves ;  not  so  much  on  the  trails,  where  they  traveled 
single  file  and  she  did  not  have  to  see  his  ugly  old 
nose  poking  on  ahead  of  her ;  she  could  n't  keep  up 
with  his  stride  on  a  walk,  and  his  long,  slinging  trot 
mile  after  mile,  when  they  traveled  together,  nearly 
broke  her  heart.  She  was  held  in  from  the  smooth 
run  which  was  her  flight  in  equivalent.  None  of  his 
gaits — he  hadn't  many  —  suited  hers.  She  knew 
herself  faster  than  he,  but  she  was  n't  allowed  to  prove 
it  in  the  work  they  did  together.  The  roads  that  were 
his  roads  were  not  meant  for  her.  He  annoyed  her 
even  when  he  minded  his  own  business  on  the  trails, 
but  still  more  when,  as  occasionally  happened,  they 
were  driven  in  harness  together.  (It  was  an  indignity, 
but  sometimes  a  necessity.)  He  would  offer  to  pull 
more  than  his  share  of  the  load  on  a  long,  stiff  grade, 
which  is  a  tactless  thing  to  do  to  a  proud  lady  trav- 
eling beside  you.  The  well-meaning  Dan  got  snapped 
at,  he  got  pushed  out  of  the  road,  and  they  both  had 
to  have  reminders  from  the  whip  —  his  fault  I  Still, 
Dan  had  nerves  too ;  he  had  affection  and  memory. 
He  went  of!  his  feed  if  left  alone  to  graze  in  the  pas- 
ture where  they  were  commonly  turned  out  together. 
Instead  of  munching  for  a  living  like  a  sensible  beast, 

276 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

he  would  spend  his  time  running  back  and  forth  the 
length  of  the  fence,  watching  for  his  field-mate,  and 
if  he  beheld  her  coming  led  by  the  halter,  he  lifted 
up  his  voice  in  loud  trumpetings  of  joy.  But  some- 
times he  waited  long  and  actually  grew  thin.  .  .  . 
Here,  I  had  to  stop,  and  Phoebe,  swallowing  hard, 
said,  **  I  wish  Trinket  liked  Dan  a  litde  better.  Don't 
you  wish  she  did.  Aunt  Edith  ?  " 

"These  things  can't  be  forced,  you  know,  with  ani- 
mals any  more  than  with  people." 

"  But  people  can  try  to  be  nice  to  each  other — you 
have  told  me  so  —  if  they  have  to  live  together.  She 
ought  to  be  polite  to  Dan  when  he 's  doing  his  best 
to  please  her." 

"Yes,"  I  agreed ;  "she  ought  to  be  polite  to  him, 
instead  of  being  whipped  into  it,  and  getting  him 
whipped  too." 

It  was  the  horseman's  rapture,  of  course,  that  gave 
such  a  thrill  to  the  terms  in  which  Trinket  was  glori- 
fied by  the  master  who  wrote  of  her.  She  was  a  thor- 
oughbred ;  she  had  pure  Arab  blood  back  in  her  sires 
in  England.  She  was  a  foolish  fine  lady,  difficult  to 
handle  if  she  were  not  understood,  but  she  was  a 
jewel,  a  darling,  in  spite  of  all  her  nonsense.  She  had 
fire  and  endurance  and  spirit,  and  she  never  shirked 
her  work.  She  tried  a  man's  patience,  but  she  was  a 
beauty,  and  she  was  mightily  beloved.  She  was  a 
creature  like  some  women  whom  you  want  to  look 
at  all  the  time.  And  there  were  good  hours,  some- 
times whole  days,  on  the  long  roads,  when  her  mood 
matched  your  own,  when  to  travel  with  her  was  like 


EDITH  BONHAM 

music  and  you  wished  the  road  might  go  on  for- 
ever. 

I  had  hung  around  more  or  less,  uneasily,  while 
these  stories  were  being  read  by  my  dear  old  friend, 
intensely  curious,  I  may  as  well  own,  as  to  what  she 
would  or  would  not  see  in  them.  For  there  might 
not  be  anything  there  I  All  the  trepidation  on  my 
part  about  having  them  read  might  be  founded  on 
pure  imagination  of  a  kind  not  to  be  proud  of. 

She  read  them  slowly,  and  with  many  a  pause. 
At  length  she  laid  the  last  one  down.  She  sat  some 
time  in  silence,  and  then  she  said :  — 

**  I  understand  why  you  did  not  show  these  letters. 
They  are  not  written  to  Phoebe ;  they  are  written  to 
you.  If  you  can't  see  his  meaning  all  through  them, 
you  must  be  very  blind."  I  was  silent.  "  Would  you 
be  willing  to  tell  me  if  you  do  see  it,  Edith?'* 

"  If  there  is  any  meaning  there,  he  has  covered  it 
up,  and  we  must  leave  it  so,  I  think.  He  is  not  a  man 
who  cannot  say  what  he  means  —  if  he  has  anything 
to  say." 

"  What  he  means  is  friendship  of  a  very  beautiful 
kind,  and  a  sad  kind,  if  he  has  to  hide  it  from  you 
in  fables.  Have  you  ever  said  anything  to  him  to 
make  it  hard  for  him  to  speak  any  plainer  ?  Did  you 
part  good  friends  in  Idaho  ?" 

"  Not  exactly,"  I  said. 

"I  was  afraid  of  it,"  she  sighed.  "I  Ve  wondered 
often  if  that  might  not  account  for  some  of  the  things 
we  don't  understand.  I  know  it  must  have  been  a 
difficult  time  with  you  both.  You  would  never  quar- 

278 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

rel, — you  are  too  sensible  for  that,  —  but  there  might 
easily  be  a  misunderstanding." 

"There  was,"  I  agreed,  —  "a  quite  serious  mis- 
understanding. But  other  things,  we  decided,  were 
more  important  than  what  we  thought  of  one  an- 
other, —  so  we  let  it  go.  That  was  not  the  point  be- 
tween us." 

"  It  seems  to  be  the  point  now,  with  him.  There  is 
deep  feeling  under  these  little  stories.  They  almost 
make  me  cry.  Are  you  going  to  be  silent,  Edith? 
Don't  you  ever  write  anything  to  him  but  business  ?" 

**  It  is  not  my  place  to  write  anything  but  business. 
He  asked  me,  when  we  said  good-bye,  to  write  to 
him  about  Phoebe,  and  he  would  answer  —  to  Phoebe. 
Now,  if  he  wants  to  say  anything  to  me,  he  must  do 
so,  and  I  will  answer  as  I  can.  It  would  be  absurd, 
indelicate,  to  notice  these  stories  to  Phoebe  as  if  they 
were  messages  to  me." 

I  had  grown  quite  excited,  and  I  could  see  my  dear 
Mrs.  Aylesford  shrink  into  herself.  But  presently  she 
found  courage  to  say :  — 

**If  he  ever  should  write,  Edith,  and  offer  you 
friendship  as  true  and  unselfish  as  —  as  poor  Dan's, 
could  n't  you  behave  a  little  better  to  him  than  that 
pettish  little  Trinket  ?  I  could  think  of  you  quite  dif- 
ferently. There  must,  indeed,  have  been  a '  misunder- 
standing,' if  that 's  his  idea  of  you  I  " 

"Mrs.  Aylesford!"  I  cried,  "you  must  not — in- 
deed, you  must  not  confuse  me  with  —  I  wish,  I  wish 
you  would  not  think  of  it  at  all ! " 

I  got  down  on  the  floor  in  front  of  her  chair  and 
279 


EDITH  BONHAM 

reached  my  arms  to  embrace  her  waist,  her  heavy 
old  woman^s  waist,  thin  and  shrunken  as  she  was  in 
flesh,  in  face,  and  hands  that  caressed  me.  **  Let  us 
leave  it  as  it  is.  If  it  ever  comes  in  such  a  shape  that 
we  cannot  leave  it,  then  is  time  enough  for  talks  like 
this.  I  don't  want  anything  to  happen  —  anything 
more  I ''  I  cried. 

"But  we  can't  prevent  things  happening  —  to 
him  I"  —  and  now  I  saw  uncovered  the  heart  of  her 
great  fear  which  was  my  own.  "  Have  you  ever 
thought  what  his  life  out  there  must  be  ?  He  is  not 
too  old  to  be  thinking  of  —  of  another  home.  I  should 
be  a  very  selfish  mother  if  I  wanted  to  keep  him  all 
his  life  locked  up  in  memories  of  my  own  child.  He 
is  a  living  man,  not  a  woman's  tomb.  Such  lives  of 
constancy  are  beautiful,  but  they  are  very  rare,  and 
they  must  be  more  possible  when  a  man's  thoughts 
are  taken  up  apart  from  women.  But  he  has  one 
woman  always  in  his  mind.  He  never  thinks  of 
Phoebe,  but  he  thinks  of  you.  He  writes  to  you  when 
he  writes  to  her ;  that  is  as  plain  to  me  as  if  he  said 
so.  I  can  imagine  how  difficult  it  would  be  to  say 
the  first  word  to  you  alone,  but  that  word  will  come. 
And  it  ought  to  come!  And,  oh,  my  dear,  when  it 
does  come  —  think  how  safe  and  sure  we  should  be  I 
Think  of  a  strange  woman  coming  into  Phoebe's  life 
— a  third  mother  I  And  he  is  to  me  like  a  son  almost. 
He  was  brought  into  this  house  almost  a  corpse  — 
nearly  gone,  that  night  of  the  storm  on  the  river.  I 
watched  his  face  for  hours  before  he  came  to  him- 
self. I  liked  his  face  and  I  trusted  him,  and  father 

280 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

trusted  him.  I  think  we  know  him  perhaps  better 
than  you  do,  or  could  —  in  such  a  wild,  hard  summer 
as  you  had  out  there.  He  speaks  of  the  altitude  get- 
ting on  the  nerves  of  a  horse  —  I  can  see  how  every- 
thing must  have  got  on  your  nerves.  Be  kind  to  him, 
dear,  be  kind  I  That  is  the  only  wisdom  old  people 
have  to  spare  —  be  kind  ! " 

After  this  outburst  (which  left  us  both  in  tears) 
Mrs.  Aylesford  literally  took  to  her  bed.  I  suppose 
never  in  her  life  before  had  she  dared  so  greatly  in 
words  and  in  a  case  so  nearly  affecting  those  whom 
she  loved  most.  It  completely  prostrated  her. 


XXV 

I  WAS  not  really  as  anxious  about  the  prostration  as 
about  the  restlessness  that  followed,  after  she  got  up 
and  began  to  go  about  the  house  as  usual.  She  took 
her  breakfast  in  bed  and  dressed  slowly  as  she  felt 
like  it ;  she  was  quite  an  elaborate  dresser  in  an  old 
lady's  way.  After  that  she  did  bits  of  sewing  or  read, 
or  I  read  aloud  to  her  if  there  was  time,  mornings 
being  my  own  busy  part  of  the  day.  At  eleven  o'clock, 
Phcebe  and  I  walked  to  the  post-office  in  the  village. 
I  usually  went  through  the  form  of  asking  if  she  had 
any  errands,  or  letters  to  mail.  Jonas  did  the  errands, 
and  Mrs.  Aylesford  wrote  very  few  letters.  Writing 
letters  she  said  tired  her.  Well ;  during  this  time  of 
restlessness  I  speak  of,  she  seemed  to  be  writing 
letters  or  something  a  great  deal  of  the  time  ;  but 
strangely  little  came  of  it  except  tiny  torn  bits  of  pa- 
per in  her  waste-basket.  So  close  we  lived  together, 
acquainted  with  each  other's  smallest  habits,  even  a 
thing  like  this  could  not  escape  observation. 

There  was  something  on  her  mind  which  with  diffi- 
culty and  many  false  starts  she  was  endeavoring  to 
transfer  to  paper  in  a  manner  exactly  suited  to  her 
idea.  There  was  something  on  my  mind,  too,  and  in 
the  hypnotic  connection  between  our  two  minds  bear- 
ing on  this  one  subject  the  awful  notion  came  to  me : 
suppose  I  had  communicated  my  own  idea  to  her  un- 

282 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

consciously,  and  she  with  greater  courage  than  I  had 
had  was  "putting  it  through.'^  So  far,  however,  I  be- 
lieved she  had  accomplished  little  besides  failures. 
No  letters  of  hers  had  gone  out  of  the  house  unless 
she  had  mailed  them  privately  which  was  too  absurd. 
What  I  had  been  thinking  was  something  like 
this :  If  he  would  come  back  and  say  to  me  now,  so- 
berly and  sanely,  such  words  as  she  expected  him  to 
say,  such  words  as  she  saw  coming,  —  if  he  should 
offer  marriage  on  the  basis  of  friendship  and  our 
mutual  love  of  Phoebe,  —  I  believed  I  should  have 
to  take  him :  for  Phoebe's  sake,  for  Phoebe's  grand- 
mother's sake,  for  the  way  it  would  devastate  my  own 
life  if  I  should  have  to  give  Phoebe  up  to  a  stranger. 
I  must  not  be  the  dog-in-the-manger  to  him  :  neither 
eat  myself  nor  let  another  eat.  It  was  human  food ; 
if  I  could  not  away  with  it  I  might  starve,  but  I  need 
not  quarrel  with  another  applicant  for  my  place.  It 
was  not  a  good  simile  and  it  broke  down,  but  it  came 
near  enough  to  my  meaning.  I  would  have  taken 
him  if  he  had  come  home  then ;  I  should  have  been 
afraid  not  to  take  him.  But  his  coming  was  a  very 
different  thing  from  his  being  encouraged  to  come 
by  some  person  in  this  house.  If  Mrs.  Aylesford, 
with  the  courage  of  her  cause,  in  the  most  delicate 
form  words  can  take,  had  done  this  thing,  —  alas  for 
Douglas,  alas  for  me  I  —  in  our  dead-lock  where  one 
must  speak  first;  but  if  that  first  word  should  seem  to 
have  come  from  me,  or  prompted  by  me  through  an- 
other, the  very  thought  would  destroy  me  I  Yet  that 
was  what  I  feared. 

283 


EDITH  BONHAM 

Phoebe  and  I  were  just  starting  for  our  walk  and  I 
had  gone  up  to  ask  my  perfunctory  question,  also  to 
tell  her  grandmother  we  were  starting  (we  held  our- 
selves responsible  to  each  other  for  every  hour  of  the 
day).  Mrs.  Aylesford  always  inquired  next  where 
Billy  was ;  and  I  told  her  that  he  and  nurse  Rob- 
erts had  other  fish  to  fry  —  Roberts  was  a  rather 
masculine  type  of  person  well  adapted  to  the  care 
of  a  lively  boy.  This  being  disposed  of,  I  asked  her 
about  letters  or  anything  for  the  post-office.  Her  deli- 
cate face  seemed  smitten,  as  it  would  be  if  she  had 
anything  to  hide  from  me  and  was  trying  to  do  so. 
She  answered  hurriedly  with  averted  eyes,  "  No,  no  ; 
I  have  no  letters  to  go." 

We  were  nearing  the  village  when  Jonas  passed  us 
in  the  light  two-seated  wagon.  He  drew  up.  "  Want 
a  ride  ?  "  he  drawled.  "  I  put  in  the  extry  seat  thinkin' 
I 'd  overtake  ye.  It's  pretty  warm  walkin'."  Phoebe 
was  always  ready  for  a  ride,  so  we  climbed  in.  As  we 
entered  the  village  I  told  Jonas,  if  he  had  other  er- 
rands, I  would  take  any  letters  he  carried  to  the  post- 
office,  as  I  was  going  anyhow. 

"  I  got  one,"  said  Jonas.  **  The  old  lady  give  it  to 
me  early  this  mornin'.  Called  me  upstairs  to  give  it 
to  me.  Most  always  it's  Mr,  Aylesford  who  writes 
out  West ;  hes  anything  happened  out  there  ?  " 

Jonas's  position  in  the  household  warranted  a  cu- 
riosity that  was  only  friendly.  The  letter  he  gave  me 
was  in  Mrs.  Aylesford's  hand,  addressed  to  Douglas 
Maclay. 

One  does  n't  tamper  with  the  United  States  mails, 
284 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

but  I  felt  quite  ready  to  do  so.  And  I  almost  wished 
I  had,  after  reading  the  letter  Phoebe  received  that 
day  from  her  father.  She  opened  it  as  we  were  jog- 
ging along  home,  and  she  jumped  up  and  down  on 
the  wagon-seat  with  joy,  crying,  "  Oh,  goody,  goody, 
there 's  another  Dan  and  Trinket  story  I  Is  n't  that 
word  *  Trinket '  ?"  Phoebe  still  had  difficulty  with  her 
father's  writing :  it  was  not  clearly  legible  like  a  busi- 
ness man's  —  really  almost  a  temperamental  hand. 
The  word  was  "Trinket,"  and  that  settled  it;  we 
could  afford  to  wait. 

It  had  been  long  since  we  had  heard  of  Dan  and 
Trinket.  Either  the  stories  had  been  told  to  Phoebe 
alone  and  their  author  had  begun  to  think  she  might 
be  getting  too  old  for  them,  or,  if  they  had  conveyed 
a  subtler  message,  there  had  been  no  response,  hence 
silence!  However  it  was,  there  had  been  no  more 
fables  for  humans  in  the  manners  and  customs  of 
equines.  The  last  story,  we  were  told,  was  literally 
true,  and  to  my  mind  it  was  one  of  the  saddest  of 
the  series,  pointing  to  a  conclusion  as  needless  as  it 
was  ironical  and  bitter. 

He  had  been  on  a  fishing-trip,  taking  a  man  along 
whom  he  called  his  "swamper,"  who  made  camp  and 
took  care  of  the  horses  while  he  was  following,  up- 
stream, the  course  of  fisherman's  luck.  The  horses 
had  been  turned  out  on  a  high  bluff  where  the  wild 
pasture  was  good,  but  as  they  were  inclined  to  hang 
around  camp  at  night  the  man  had  thrown  a  few 
pine  boughs  across  the  narrow  defile  leading  up  to 
the  bluff,  shutting  them  back  about  their  business  of 

285 


EDITH  BONHAM 

grazing.  The  bluff  in  front  was  high  and  steep  above 
the  river,  but  by  going  back  to  the  head  of  the  trail 
and  following  it  down,  animals  or  creatures  that  had 
made  the  trail  came  to  the  water  through  a  side- 
caiion  much  lower  than  the  bluff.  This  the  horses 
had  been  expected  to  discover  for  themselves;  but 
Dan  and  Trinket  had  not  seemed  to  even  try.  They 
depended  on  the  human  help  they  were  used  to,  when 
the  need  came,  and  could  not  understand  why  they 
were  forgotten  of  man  I  At  night  the  swamper  went 
up  to  see  if  all  was  right,  and  found  them  hanging 
around  the  barrier ;  there  they  stood,  the  stupid 
things  1  He  drove  them  back  with  sticks  and  re- 
turned to  camp.  By  the  second  day  they  had  ceased 
to  eat,  having  no  water.  By  the  third,  when  it  was 
time  to  start  for  home,  the  thing  had  nearly  become 
a  tragedy  —  and  I  was  forced  to  stop  reading  and 
comfort  Phcebe.  Their  master,  in  telling  the  story, 
blamed  Dan,  who  was  more  of  a  "rustler"  than 
Trinket.  No  "States  horse"  like  her  could  be  ex- 
pected to  know  the  ways  of  the  ranges.  Dan  must 
have  been  a  bone-head  (another  of  his  terms  of  re- 
proach) to  have  got  himself  and  her  into  such  a 
scrape.  They  were  hollow  with  want  of  food,  gaunt 
and  sick  for  water,  when  their  state  was  at  last  dis- 
covered. They  would  probably  have  hung  around 
the  barrier  till  they  dropped,  if  the  fishing-trip  had 
gone  on  much  longer. 

"  I  hope  he  scolded  the  man ! "  had  been  Phoebe's 
comment  at  the  time,  —  "I  don't  blame  Dan  a  bit. 
He  was  n't  a  wild  horse,  he  was  a  human  horse." 

286 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

"  Half-human,"  I  suggested.  "  That 's  so  much 
more  difficult  than  being  all-wild  or  all-tame." 

After  this  true  story,  that  sounded  like  allegory, 
we  had  heard  no  more  of  Dan  and  Trinket ;  hence 
to-day's  excitement  at  their  reappearance.  Eager  as 
Phoebe  was  to  hear  what  was  coming  next  to  our 
liorse  friends,  I  perhaps  was  almost  as  bad — as  fool- 
ish. What  did  come  came  like  a  shock.  Trinket,  on 
account  of  her  condition  as  a  result  of  the  altitude, 
had  been  sent  down  to  Boise  Barracks  where  she 
would  be  given  expert  care  and  a  change  of  feed, 
and  be  exercised  by  the  sister  of  the  commandant's 
wife.  Miss  Blair,  who  was  a  finished  horsewoman, 
who  rode  like  a  trooper.  That  was  all  I  .  .  .  Phoebe 
looked  blank. 

**  Papa  said  nobody  at  all  should  ever  ride  Trinket. 
Who  is  Miss  Blair?" 

Who  was  Miss  Blair!  How  should  we  know? 
There  might  have  been  long  chapters  of  his  life  out 
there  and  undercurrents  we  had  never  suspected.  I 
had  not  heard  of  Boise  Barracks  for  years ;  Isabel 
Forth  and  I  did  not  correspond  regularly  —  only 
through  her  could  I  have  heard  of  army  orders  and 
who  had  succeeded  them  at  the  Boise  Post.  Unless 
Douglas  had  chosen  to  speak  of  them,  we  could  not 
have  known  of  these  new  friends  —  it  was  not  con- 
ceivable that  he  would  send  a  horse  like  Trinket 
away,  with  permission  for  any  one  to  ride  her  who 
was  not  a  pretty  close  friend  —  whose  riding  he  knew 
all  about — a  man  does  not  always  mention  whom 
he  rides  with.  The  hospitality  of  the  Post  in  itself 

287 


EDITH  BONHAM 

was  unusual,  implied  considerable  intimacy  back  of 
it.  And  I  had  just  mailed  to  him  a  letter  from  my 
dear,  deluded  friend,  based,  I  felt  certain,  on  those 
risky  words  between  us  as  to  these — oh,  these  ter- 
ribly misunderstood  poor  little  stories !  My  face 
burned,  my  blood  boiled  and  froze  with  shame.  .  .  . 
I,  to  be  thinking  of  him  waiting  at  the  barrier,  dry, 
wasted,  lacking  the  sweet  springs  of  life  because  of  a 
little  misunderstanding  about  finding  the  way  I  He 
was  a  good  "rustler"  after  all  —  he  had  found  the 
way  —  back  and  down  by  the  accustomed  trail.  It 
was  only  I  who  stood  alone  dumb  with  puzzled  wait- 
ing, land-locked,  inland  far —  Here  I  saw  that  Phcebe 
was  mutely  weeping,  or  trying  not  to  weep. 

"  Fm  afraid  papa  will  sell  Trinket  to  that  Miss 
Blair !  and  Dan  won't  ever  see  her  any  more.  He  '11 
grow  thin  —  he  won't  eat  —  " 

"  Dan  will  forget  about  Trinket  in  a  little  while. 
They  do  —  horses  do.  That 's  one  good  thing  about 
being  a  horse,  isn't  it?" 

"  But  ze/^'ll  never  see  Trinket  I  I  thought  papa  would 
take  us  out  there  some  day  and  perhaps  he  'd  let  us 
ride  her.  But  we  don't  know  Miss  Blair  1 " 


XXVI 

It  took  five  days  then  for  a  letter  from  us  to  reach 
Boise ;  six  or  seven,  adding  the  stage-trip,  to  Silver 
City.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait.  Meantime 
a  telegram  dated  New  York  came  from  Dick  Grant 
asking  if  he  might  pay  me  a  call  between  trains.  He 
owed  me  nothing,  not  even  a  call.  I  had  heard  from 
him  last  in  a  very  sweet,  generous  love-letter  offer- 
ing me  once  more  what  I  had  already  twice  declined. 
This  time  I  repeated  the  refusal  as  firmly  as  I  knew 
how,  advising  that  we  break  ofT  writing  to  each  other 
as  the  surest  cure  for  what  could  never  be  changed. 
It  had  proved  so,  as  this  visit  was  to  witness. 

We  lunched  together,  young  and  old,  Dick  mak- 
ing a  conquest  of  Mrs.  Aylesford  and  making  eyes 
at  Phoebe  at  one  and  the  same  time.  Phoebe  made 
eyes  back  again  quite  as  unembarrassed  as  he.  He 
looked  at  her  constantly  and  affectionately  —  it  did 
one  good  to  see  him ;  and  it  did  me  good  to  hear 
him  praise  her  when  we  three  rambled  off  after 
luncheon;  she  sometimes  beside  him  holding  his 
hand,  or  skipping  on  ahead,  her  eyes  afar,  her  lips 
moving  slightly,  half-smiling  to  herself  in  one  of  her 
dreams  which  the  gallant  presence  of  our  visitor  and 
his  talk  about  the  West  inspired. 

"  But,  see  here ! ''  he  turned  to  me  :  —  "I  came  to 
see  you  particularly.  Are  n't  we  to  have  a  little  time 
to  ourselves  ?  I  really  want  to  speak  to  you." 

289 


EDITH  BONHAM 

His  manner  was  a  trifle  shy,  but  his  eyes  meeting 
mine  were  not  the  eyes  of  a  lover  —  not  my  lover.  I 
suspected  at  once  the  nature  of  this  impending  talk. 
Phoebe  was  told  to  run  into  the  house  and  see  if 
grandmamma  was  all  right  (it  was  her  custom  to  lie 
down  after  luncheon,  but  she  did  not  sleep),  and  to 
ask  if  she  would  join  us  at  tea  before  Dick  left  for 
his  train.  Phoebe,  suspecting  a  ruse,  hung  about 
reluctant;  but  she  went  when  my  eye  informed  her 
there  must  be  no  trifling  with  orders,  relying  on  the 
presence  of  a  guest  to  escape  compliance. 

*'Now,  Dick,  be  quick,"  I  said,  "with  your  talk, 
for  Phoebe  is  so  charmed  that  she  '11  be  quick  for  fear 
of  missing  any  more  of  you  than  she  has  to." 

" I '11  be  quick,"  said  Dick.  —  "Ah,  she^s  charm- 
ing I" 

"  Who  's  charming?"  I  laughed  at  him. 

**  Phoebe,"  said  he  shamelessly.  "  I  left  a  little  girl 
like  that  in  New  York  when  I  went  to  Idaho ;  the 
*  little  girl  next  door.'  I  hardly  had  thought  of  her 
since.  Last  month  I  came  home,  —  and,  bless  gra- 
cious I  she  was  a  woman  —  a  woman  of  eighteen.  The 
woman  for  me  !  .  .  .  And  now  she  's  mine.  Was  n't 
that  '  quick '  ?  —  yet  not  quick  at  all.  It  took  eight 
years  to  find  her  —  and  to  find  myself,  I  guess.  So 
slow,  it  might  just  have  never  been  1 " 

"  That 's  beautiful  news,  Dick !  It 's  the  right  news 
for  you,  and  for  her  too,  I  have  n't  a  doubt.  But  you 
won't  hurry  her,  will  you  ?  Eighteen  is  awfully  young 
for  marriage,  and  the  West  too." 

"  She 's  not  going  West  I  've  come  home  to  stay. 
290 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

My  father  died  last  fall,  you  know  ?  They  need  me 
at  home ;  the  business  needs  me." 

**  I  'm  sorry  I  did  not  know  you  had  that  sorrow, 
Dick.  I  should  have  wanted  to  write  to  you." 

**  I  did  n't  write  to  you,"  said  Dick.  "  It  happened 
while  I  was  still  in  Idaho  —  I  was  sure  you'd  have 
understood,  though  —  just  as  sure  as  if  you  had  writ- 
ten. We  've  stood  a  few  things  together." 

"  We  have,"  I  agreed ;  "  and  I  think  you  are  lovely 
to  come  and  tell  me  this  news  yourself.  Some  day 
you  will  bring  her.  But  you  won't  hurry  her?  Eight- 
een is  very  young." 

*'  I  shall  hurry  her.  I  'm  not  young.  What  do  you 
say  to  thirty-one  I " 

"  What  do  you  say  to  thirty-three  1 " 

**  You  don't  mean  it  —  not  you  I " 

"  I  shall  never  see  thirty-two  again.  Don't  say  I 
don't  look  it — I  feel  it;  that 's  the  main  thing.'* 

*'  But  —  how  long  is  this  to  last?  It 's  very  comfort- 
able and  home-like  here,  but  it 's  not  a  bit  like  you.** 

**  How  do  you  know  what 's  like  me  ! " 

**  What 's  narrow  is  not  like  you.  This  place  has  n't 
grown  any  in  the  last  hundred  years." 

"  The  children  are  growing  very  nicely." 

Dick  looked  at  me  gravely.  **  You  speak  of  these 
children  as  if  they  were  your  own." 

*'  I  wish  they  were  my  own,"  I  said. 

**  Yes ;  if  they  are  so  much  to  you,  it  *s  a  pity  they 
are  not.  Do  you  hear  from  their  father  often?'* 

**  Phoebe  hears  once  a  week,"  I  said. 

"  Then  of  course  you  know  —  *' 
291 


EDITH  BONHAM 

"  What  ?  "  —  my  heart  stopped. 

"  That  he  's  coming  on.  I  only  heard  it  by  acci- 
dent —  in  the  company's  office.  He  had  telegraphed 
them  to  expect  him  —  I  think  very  soon." 

"  How  strange  I "  I  breathed. 

"  It  may  have  been  quite  sudden.  Still,  there  was 
some  talk  of  his  going  East  when  I  left  there  a  month 
ago.  They  were  up  at  Silver  City  then,  Mrs.  Finley 
and  Miss  Blair;  and  Mr.  Blair's  private  car  was  sit- 
ting out  in  the  sagebrush  all  ready  for  the  party  to 
go  aboard —  " 

"At  Silver  City!  Is  there  a  railroad  —  " 

"  No,  no  ;  at  Boise,"  said  Dick.  "The  Short-Line 's 
through  to  Boise.  The  town  turned  out  regularly 
to  watch  the  car-crew  dust  her  out  and  wash  her 
down  —  the  first  magnate's  car  they'd  ever  seen.  I 
understood  Mr.  Maclay  expected  to  come  on  with 
them." 

I  prayed  that  Dick  did  not  see  how  the  blood  had 
left  my  face.  "Who,"  I  asked,  "are  Mrs.  Finley  and 
Miss  Blair?" 

"  Well ;  he  's  a  curious  man ! "  Dick  ejaculated. 
"If  you  don't  know  that,  what  do  you  know  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  I  said,  "  about  him  apparently.  I  sup- 
pose he  thinks  we  are  n't  interested." 

"Well;  Boise,  you  know,  is  always  interested. 
Mrs.  Finley  is  Major  Finley's  wife,  the  new  command- 
ant at  the  Barracks.  Miss  Blair  is  her  sister,  quite  a 
beauty  and  a  superb  horsewoman.  Mr.  Blair  is  a  great 
gun  in  the  mining  way.  He 's  said  to  have  the  mines 
at  Silver  bonded  for  his  syndicate ;  Maclay,  of  course, 

292 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

would  n*t  speak  of  that  — .  And  he 's  going  to  buy 
the  mesa — build  a  big  house  out  there.  The  ditch 
has  gone  through,  not  the  old  Eastern  Canal,  but 
one  just  as  good  and  big  enough  for  the  mesa. 
All  the  valley  there  will  blossom  like  the  rose." 

**Dick,"  I  gasped,  "just  wait  till  I  get  my  breath  I 
Has  any  of  this  got  anything  to  do  with  us  —  here? 
I  don't  mean  mines  and  things —  with  Phoebe  ?  What 
does  it  mean  about  Miss  Blair,  and  coming  East  with 
her  father?" 

"  It  may  mean  only  business.  Mr.  Blair  is  in  big 
business,  and  Maclay  is  not  far  behind  when  there 's 
any  chance  of  a  good  deal.  The  gossips,  of  course, 
have  it  they  're  engaged.  They  were  up  there  just  be- 
fore I  came  away,  the  whole  party,  Mr.  Blair  looking 
at  mines.  Maclay  entertained  them  ;  they  rode.  Miss 
Blair  rode,  —  he  showed  them  around  a  bit.  He  was 
their  host,  of  course.  He  was  n't  in  the  big  house  then, 
but  he  took  them  over  it.  I  saw  that  myself.  And 
the  riding  everybody  saw.  Miss  Blair  is  a  peach  on 
horseback.  She  rode  that  dandy  little  mare  of  his  — 
showed  off  her  paces  like  a  circus-queen.  Then,  as 
I  say,  they  went  all  over  the  house  —  which  made 
me  rather  hot  I " 

**  What  house?" 

"  How  you  cross-question  1 "  said  Dick.  "  You  make 
a  fellow  afraid  he  's  telling  lies." 

"Well,  you  know  what  house  it  was?" 

"It  was  his  house,  the  one  he  started  — />^<?y started 
—  to  build,  you  know.  It's  up  now,  finished  and  fur- 
nished all  through.   A  fine  house  for  Silver  City; 

293 


EDITH  BONHAM 

rather  big  for  one  man  to  eat  and  sleep  in.   But  you 
know  all  that?" 

"  I  should  n't  ask  you  if  I  did.  You  make  me  feel 
ill!  You  must  know  what  this  means  — " 

Here  Phoebe  came  towards  us,  running  down  the 
lane.  She  was  in  blue,  sunlight  through  pale  willow 
boughs  sifting  over  her.  Her  hair  in  large,  loose 
waves  tumbled  over  her  shoulders,  the  front  lock 
turned  aside  and  tied  with  a  scarlet  ribbon.  There 
was  little  rose  in  her  complexion,  but  the  sun  neither 
browned  nor  freckled  it,  only  creamed  it  to  the  color 
of  ivory.  A  little  nose,  a  mouth  with  curly  corners 
and  a  lovely  pout  to  the  upper  lip  which,  with  the 
steady  regard  of  her  dark  gray  eyes,  gave  the  proud 
look  to  her  face  of  intelligent  innocence.  Perfectly 
unconscious  as  yet,  but  capable  of  an  effort  to  please 
as  natural  as  the  perfume  of  a  flower. 

•*  Look  at  that ! "  I  said.  "  I  am  to  lose  that  child. 
Five  years  I  've  had  her  for  my  own.  No  one  in  the 
world  knows  so  much  about  her — five  years !  Dick, 
you  kill  me.  If  this  is  true — " 

"Edith,  I'm  an  assl"  Poor  Dick  was  dreadfully 
disturbed  by  this  outbreak.  I  was  utterly  reckless  of 
his  presence,  as  in  fact  I  always  had  been.  "  Forgive 
me  and  don't  think  any  more  about  it.  You  know 
what  gossip  is  I " 

"I  know  nothing.  The  fact  that  it's  been  kept 
quiet,  —  even  the  house  !  —  writing  to  us  every  week, 
is  all  the  proof  I  need  that  this  thing  is  hanging  over 
us.  You  have  warned  me  in  time.  No  one  else  shall 
see  what  you  have  seen." 

294 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

I  don't  know  what  Dick  thought  he  saw  in  my 
agony.  It  did  n't  matter.  He  might  be  at  times 
whatever  he  chose  to  call  himself,  he  was  always  a 
gentleman.  He  loved  me  for  the  sorrow  he  had  seen 
me  bear,  for  the  sorrow  he  believed  I  had  still  to 
bear.    He  took  my  hand  and  squeezed  it  hard. 

**  You  are  a  great  woman,  Edith.  It 's  cruel  if  it 's 
true.  But  it 's  all  for  the  best.  You  have  given  too 
much.  Such  love  as  you  have  given  these  children 
ought  not  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  any  man  —  except 
he  were  your  husband.   It 's  time  that  it  ended." 

**  I  shall  never  suffer  for  anything  I  've  given,  nor 
regret  anything  I  have  n't  got  for  what  I  've  given." 
I  tore  away  my  hand,  then  I  took  his  in  both  mine 
and  returned  the  friendly  grip.  **  Thank  you,  my 
dear  Dick.  I  'ni  going  to  see  about  tea.  Come  to 
the  house  with  Phoebe — not  too  soon  I" 

"You  blessed  girl  I  I'm  an  awful  ass,"  he  insisted, 
"  but  I  love  you." 

"  *  Now  we'll  put  on  our  feathers  again,'  said  the 
plucked  bird."  This  I  remarked  to  myself  with  bor- 
rowed irony,  on  my  way  back  to  the  house.  Quota- 
tions were  wasted  on  Dick.  Men  who  can  swear  (I 
don't  mean  Dick),  and  women  who  can  wail  and 
rage,  have  an  outlet  that  is  denied  to  some  of  us. 
There  remains  the  comfort  of  the  right  word.  It 's  gen- 
erally another's,  but  men's  oaths,  though  "strange," 
are  not  often  original.  And  the  prophets  of  lamenta- 
tion are  very  old. 

The  mesa  going  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Blair,  and 
about  to  blossom  with  his  money  like  the  rose  I 

295 


EDITH  BONHAM 

There  were  other  stabs  meaner  and  smaller,  there 
were  wounds  that  went  deeper,  but  that  one  fact  — 
the  mesa  sold  and  no  word  said  —  that  covered  a 
great  deal  of  history  I  Trinket,  of  course,  must  have 
been  bought  for  Nanny :  there  was  quite  a  history 
here,  too,  and  some  of  it  wretchedly  misread.  And 
now  a  lady  who  rode  like  a  circus-queen  was  show- 
ing off  her  paces  on  the  trails  we  had  learned  to 
know  in  those  letters  that  we  had  taken  as  our  ex- 
cuse for  silly  castle-building.  Riding,  it  so  happened, 
was  one  of  the  things  I  had  envied  the  so-called 
"  rich."  It  is  certainly  not  for  the  daughters  of  poor 
artists  in  New  York.  Nanny  had  cantered  over  her 
country  roads  on  the  well-broken  farm-horses,  but 
she  was  no  circus-queen.  Nanny  was  better  at  plan- 
ning houses  —  for  strangers  to  live  in.  I  had  planned 
nothing,  except  a  tombstone  once  —  well ;  it  was  all 
of  five  years  ago.   It  was  even  going  on  six. 

Was  I  really  fallen  as  low  as  this  ?  Could  n't  I  for- 
give the  man  his  happiness  ?  No ;  but  his  silence 
was  the  insult  that  made  all  the  rest  so  estranging. 
Why,  even  Dick  had  flown  to  me  with  his  news !  He 
had  n't  suspected  me  of  grudging  vanity,  the  sour- 
ness of  the  supplanted.  He  had  n't  even  apologized 
to  himself  for  the  little  fact  that  he  had  more  than 
once  proposed  to  me,  and  that  I  was  not  his  first. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  that  tea  I  Mrs.  Aylesford,  peace- 
ful and  smiling,  ignorant  of  this  blow ;  myself  trying 
to  pretend  I  was  a  "sport"  and  a  good  loser,  after 
the  exhibition  I  had  made ;  Phoebe  joyous  (on  the 
eve  of  a  new  mother)  and  unconcerned  except  with 

296 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

the  nature  of  the  layer-cake  Mary  had  sent  in  —  if 
the  dark  streaks  were  chocolate  or  blackberry  jelly. 
And  then  our  walk  with  Dick  to  his  train  and  the  few 
minutes'  wait  till  the  accommodation  from  Pough- 
keepsie  came  hooting  out  of  the  tunnel  and  slowed 
down.    Dick  on  the  rear  platform  of  the  last  car 
waved  his  white  straw  hat  to  us ;  he  looked  young 
and  gay  in  his  Eastern  clothes  that  fitted  a  happy 
man  who  has  divorced  the  grimy  West  and  given 
up  spurs  and  Stetson  hats,  and  fallen  into  step  on 
the  pavement.    I  knew  he  would  never  forget  my 
frightful  "give-away,"  but  I  was  safe  with  Dick — 
though  he  was  to  marry  a  school-girl.  The  world  of 
the  young  and  happy  closed  its  doors  as  the  train 
swept  out  of  sight.    Phoebe  and  I  went  up  the  hill  to 
hear  grandmamma  chat  about  Dick  and  ask  ques- 
tions about  our  friendship  out  West  when  we  had 
seen  so  much  of  each  other.    I  wondered  what  she 
would  say  if  I  should  suddenly  break  out  and  tell 
her  of  his  passion  for  Nanny,  or,  for  that  matter,  his 
later  passion  for  myself  I    Instead  I  told  her  he  was 
going  to  be  married  and  treated  the  happy  event  as 
if  it  had  been  the  first  of  the  kind  in  his  young  career. 
Thus  we  tried  to  amuse  each  other  in  this  house  that 
lived  in  the  past  or  in  a  future  beyond  our  control, 
from  which  we  must  hide  our  private  hopes  and  peril- 
ous imaginings.   The  only  safety  lay  in  the  fact  that 
Miss  Blair  also  was  young  and  gay  and  might  not 
care  to  be  cumbered  with  a  big  girl  like  Phcebe,  an- 
other woman's  child.    A  father  who  had   not  seen 
her  in  five  years  could  not  miss  her  much  in  reality. 


XXVII 

The  question  now  was,  whether  to  prepare  Mrs. 
Aylesford?  I  dreaded  her  false  happiness  when  the 
telegram  should  come  saying  that  he  was  on  his  way 
to  us  at  last.  Dick  had  endeavored  to  discount  his 
news  as  gossip,  but  any  one  could  see  what  Dick  be- 
lieved. Should  I  leave  her  to  take  it  as  it  came  ?  I 
knew  how  astounding  and  quick  Douglas  could  be 
when  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  declare  some  pro- 
posed action  which  he  looked  at  from  his  own  point 
of  view.  Here  again  I  was  entangling  myself  with  my 
point  of  view.  In  no  one's  eyes  but  ours  would  this 
announcement  be  held  astounding.  He  would  be  sim- 
ply and  heartily  congratulated  by  almost  every  one 
he  knew  except  ourselves.  He  had  waited  a  decent 
time ;  he  was  normal  —  we  were  the  cloistered, 
wrapped  in  dreams.  Mrs.  Aylesford  herself  could  not 
call  it  unseemly  or  pretend  to  think  it  too  soon. 
Hadn't  she  offered  him  to  me?  Pray  Heaven  she 
had  not  offered  me  to  him  I  It  was  this  fear  that  de- 
cided me  to  sound  her,  through  the  effect  of  my  later 
news,  as  to  what  she  might  have  written.  If  my  sus- 
picions were  correct,  I  knew  her  face  would  confirm 
them ;  the  helpless  confession  of  her  manner  would 
tell  me  the  truth.  There  might  be  time  to  forestall 
or  nullify  that  letter  which  never  should  have  gone. 
I  did  prepare  her.  I  was  as  careful  as  I  dared  be, 
298 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

for  I  must  not  minimize  too  much.  I  drew  no  conclu- 
sions ;  here  were  certain  facts  —  she  must  judge  for 
herself  how  much  they  meant,  or  if  they  meant  any- 
thing at  all. 

She  wilted  under  them  like  a  frosted  flower.  She 
paled  and  grew  faint.  The  whispered  words  escaped 
her :  "  What  have  I  done ! "  It  was  enough.  She  was 
past  the  power  to  speak,  though  not  actually  uncon- 
scious, barely  breathing,  white  as  the  wall.  And  again 
her  strength  left  her  for  days  ...  for  all  the  days  be- 
fore his  telegram  which  came  at  last.  He  was  in  New 
York ;  he  would  be  with  us  by  the  afternoon  train  — 
that  same  day. 

1  shall  not  go  far  into  the  details  of  our  meeting, 
after  those  five  and  a  half  years  —  so  long  looked 
forward  to,  so  ghastly  in  the  realization.  But  there  was 
the  children's  unconsciousness  to  save  us :  Phoebe's 
beautiful,  shy  joy  and  dawning  remembrance,  Billy- 
boy's sturdy  looks  of  distrust  at  the  stranger  who 
stared  so  hard,  and  boldly  took  him  on  his  knee. 
Billy  was  like  his  mother,  but  more  gorgeous,  a  devel- 
oped rose  in  his  richer  blondness  and  his  features  of 
a  young  Protetis.  Nanny  had  not  given  him  those 
regular  features;  still  he  had  her  firm  jaw  and  he 
stuck  it  out  manfully  at  the  stranger's  liberties.  One 
could  have  laughed  at  those  two,  the  man  and  the 
man-child,  measuring  each  other  with  steady  eyes. 
I  think  I  did  laugh,  and  then  I  left  the  room. 

At  this  time  he  had  not  seen  Mrs.  Aylesford  who 
could  only  welcome  him  in  her  bed.  She  had  been 
trembling  all  over  with  the  excitement  of  keeping 

299 


EDITH  BONHAM 

up ;  she  wished  to  be  made  neat,  as  she  called  it,  but 
I  knew  she  meant  fine :  her  very  best  cap  ;  the  dainti- 
est of  her  little  bed-wraps  about  her  shoulders ;  the 
pillow-cases  fresh  that  she  was  propped  against.  So 
I  dressed  her  as  a  lamb  for  the  sacrifice,  jeering  at 
my  own  thoughts.  And  then  I  told  him  she  was  ready. 
He,  of  course,  would  tell  her  first. 

As  to  his  manner  to  me  — I  had  not  looked  close 
enough  to  observe.  He  was  deeply  stirred,  but  there 
had  been  plenty  to  stir  him.  This  visit  went  to  the 
very  roots  of  the  past  he  had  come  to  bury,  to  part 
from  decently  leaving  a  few  flowers  of  regret  upon 
the  grave  —  bearing  away  our  living  flowers,  leaving 
us  the  regrets.  I  was  an  insane  recluse  to  see  so  mucl? 
tragedy  in  it. 

My  own  private  tragedy  I  took  out  of  doors  to  the 
old  place  ;  under  the  willows  on  the  wayside  stones. 
All  was  silent  in  the  lane,  the  willows'  light  leafage 
barely  stirred.  And  yet  I  dared  not  sit  there  and 
think.  I  must  command  myself  for  my  own  turn  on 
the  rack.  It  was  coming  —  he  was  coming  ;  and  be- 
cause Phoebe  was  not  with  him,  I  knew  that  it  was 
coming.  I  rose  and  went  to  meet  it. 

His  eyes  were  difficult  to  sustain  as  they  sought 
mine.  Obliged  to  look  at  him,  it  seemed  there  were 
fresh  traces  of  sorrow  in  his  face  since  I  had  seen  it 
last,  the  ravages  of  loneliness,  of  the  slow,  drudging 
years.  It  softened  me  a  little :  why  should  I  be  so 
hard  to  this  poor  human  man,  with  half  his  life  be- 
fore him,  homeless,  wifeless,  a  concentrated,  unsocial 
mind. 

300 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

I  asked,  to  gain  time,  how  he  had  found  Mrs.  Ayles- 
ford  —  how  did  she  look  to  him  ? 

He  thought  her  looking  very  frail ;  she  struck  him 
as  very  much  altered.  **  You  did  not  give  me  the  im- 
pression in  your  letters  that  she  had  failed  so  much.'* 

She  hadn't,  I  said,  until  the  last  month  or  so. 

"  Has  she  had  anything  like  a  stroke?" 

I  knew  what  sort  of  stroke  he  meant,  but  I  played 
on  the  word  bitterly.  "  Yes  ;  she  has  had  something 
very  like  a  stroke.  .  .  .  Did  she  bear  the  meeting 
with  you  pretty  well  ?  "  I  trembled  to  ask. 

"She  seemed  to,"  he  said,  "but  she  struck  me  as 
very  nervous,  very  much  excited.  I  did  n't  stay  with 
her  long." 

Then  he  had  n't  told  her  I  He  had  n't  dared  to 
tell  her,  —  to  strike  a  grandmother  when  she  was 
"down." 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  have  n't  come  for  long,  Douglas," 
I  urged  him  recklessly.  "  If  you  have  come  for  any 
special  reason,  let  us  get  it  over  with." 

He  drew  his  breath  in  hard.  Well  I  remembered 
that  sign  in  him  that  took  the  place  of  words  under 
strong  emotion !  This  man  could  not  get  things  over 
with  as  easily  as  Dick.  "  Do  you  not  know  why  I 
have  come,  Edith?" 

"  I  may  have  guessed,"  I  said.  "  But  you  have  left 
it  all  to  guessing." 

"  Have  I  ?  "  he  retorted.  "  Could  n't  you  read  any- 
thing between  the  lines  of  my  letters,  all  these  years?  " 

"  Reading  what  is  not  written  in  letters  is  n't  a 
very  safe  thing  to  do,  when  the  writers  are  as  far  apart 

301 


EDITH  BONHAM 

as  we  have  been.  I  did  not  look  for  anything  be- 
tween your  lines." 

**  You  were  silent  enough  I "  he  said  in  a  tone  that 
sounded  bitter  too  (why  should  he  be  bitter!)  "I 
don't  know  that  I  should  ever  have  come  but  that  I 
must  come  —  I  have  to  come  !  We  must  get  it  over 
with,  as  you  say.  1  have  waited  five  years  and  longer 

—  isn't  it  enough?" 

''Enough  —  for  what!"  I  cried,  —  "for  whom? 
What  have  I  to  do  with  your  waiting  those  five  years  I" 

He  repeated  the  words  slowly  :  ''What  have  you 
to  do  with  those  five  years  I  If  you  have  guessed 
why  I  am  here,  why  do  you  torment  me  ?  Why  have 
you  been  so  silent  ?  I  laid  out  my  heart  to  you  as  a 
man  can  who  is  denied  the  right  to  speak  like  a  man. 
You  might  have  foreshadowed  your  answer,  at  least, 

—  given  me  a  hint  one  way  or  another.  Where  do  I 
stand  ?  Is  there  to  be  nothing  more  between  us  — 
nothing  but  silence?" 

"  If  there  is  anything  more  you  will  have  to  speak 
plain,  Douglas.  I  don't  know  what  you  have  got  on 
your  mind  —  not  from  any  words  of  yours." 

"  Then,  to  speak  plain,  —  God  help  us,  —  I  ask  you 
once  more  to  be  my  wife." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said.  "  Before  I  answer,  I  must  ask 
you  this :  did  you  get  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Aylesford 
before  you  came  East  this  last  time  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  been  East  before  this  —  one  winter  I 
was  as  far  East  as  Chicago.  I  dared  not  come  here 
then  —  " 

"  I  asked  you  a  question." 
302 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

"You  appear  to  know  that  a  letter  was  sent?  I 
never  imagined,  of  course,  that  you  could  have  known 
its  contents.  As  Mrs.  Aylesford  did  not  tell  you  what 
she  wrote,  do  you  think  I  should?" 

*'I  think  you  must,"  I  said,  **  before  we  go  any 
further.  I  have  reason  to  suppose  that  letter  was 
about  me." 

"  It  was  much  more  about  me." 

**  Did  it  bring  you  on  here  to  ask  me  to  be  your 
wife  —  in  the  fear  of  God?"  I  taunted. 

He  was  stung  by  that,  but  he  made  no  retort  in 
kind. 

"  It  gave  me  courage  to  come  —  the  courage  you 
have  steadily  denied  me,  crushing  my  hopes  as  fast 
as  they  grew.  You  know  I  was  not  looking  for  a 
wife  when  I  spoke  to  you  on  the  mesa !  I  was  not 
speaking  to  Any  Woman,  but  you  implied  just  that 

—  when  you  said  you  were  glad  to  share  the  *  insult ' 
(with  my  wife)  rather  than  have  it  go  to  some  other 
woman  who  might  not  answer  me  as  I  deserved. 
Edith,  if  I  could  forgive  that,  you  ought  to  be  able 
to  forgive  the  rest !  I  thought  you  were  the  one 
woman  who  could  understand !  It  was  the  highest 
trust  I  could  show  you.  I  put  our  case  in  your  hands, 
knowing  how  you  loved  my  child,  how  you  felt  about 
her  mother —  There  we  were  between  the  devil  and 
the  deep  sea :  would  you  take  the  plunge  with  me  ? 

—  the  sea  at  least  was  clean.  I  thought  you  could 
face  it  with  a  breadth  like  that  of  the  dead,  if  death 
is  what  we  think  it  is.  .  .  .  I  was  wrong,  of  course. 
I  was  mad.  You  gave  me  a  horrible  lesson.  Since 

303 


EDITH  BONHAM 

then  you  have  never  been  out  of  my  mind.  I  have 
lain  awake  nights  hounded  by  your  speeches.  I  have 
waked  from  sound  sleep  pursued  by  things  you  were 
saying  to  me  in  dreams  that  literally  made  me  sweat 
— your  words  burned  scars  into  me  that  I  shall  carry 
all  my  life.  Never  did  a  man  see  himself  so  hideous 
in  a  woman's  eyes ;  and  such  a  woman  —  such  a 
woman  I 

**  Now  that  is  done  !  Now  I  offer  you  my  five  years' 
humiliation,  my  unceasing  thought  of  you  and  sense 
of  your  injustice.  You  were  wrong,  in  a  woman's 
way,  —  not  wrong  as  to  the  principle  —  wrong  as  to 
me.  I  must  have  either  loved  you  or  hated  you.  How 
could  I  not  love  you  I  I  have  not  a  young  man's  love 
to  offer  —  will  you  take  the  love  of  my  forty  years?" 

I  was  dazed.  *'  Wait ;  let  me  think."  His  face  con- 
tracted with  a  spasm  of  pain.  Had  I  said  those  words 
to  him  before  ?  —  they  had  a  strange,  deadly  familiar- 
ity —  I  went  on  hastily  to  cover  them. 

"  A  year  ago,  if  you  had  come  and  asked  me  to 
marry  you,  I  believe  I  would  have  taken  you,  with- 
out any  love  —  for  Phoebe's  sake,  and  to  keep  the 
children  in  the  family  —  without  any  love  of  yours  or 
mine.  Just  a  sane,  respectable  marriage  such  as  the 
world  approves.  I  could  have  given  you  my  sincere 
friendship  and  a  larger  faith  than  we  need  speak  of 
now.  Now,  I  demand  more  —  and  I  have  less  faith.  I 
must  examine  this  love  of  your  forty  years.  What  do  I 
know  of  you,  Douglas?  What  do  I  know  of  your  life 
which  I  should  have  to  share  ?  I  don't  know  even  the 
names  of  your  friends  who  are  your  guests  —  in  the 

304 


-.fes^       ■■'■   -- 

MRS.  AYLESFORD 

house  you  have  built  which  I  suppose  you  intend  me 
to  live  in?  You  have  been  writing  to  us  every  week, 
and  it  is  Dick  Grant  who  comes  to  pay  me  a  call 
who  tells  me  casually  this  house  is  built  and  furnished, 
and  that  you  are  taking  your  friends  over  it — " 

"Damn  Dick!" 

That  was  all  he  said ;  —  he  left  me  in  the  road 
where  we  had  been  talking  and  turned  his  back  on  me 
and  went  towards  the  house  alone.  And  once  more, 
when  it  was  too  late,  I  heard  my  own  words  as  he 
must  have  heard  them.  I  did  not  wait  for  his  return ; 
I  knew  he  would  not  return.  I  had  insulted  him  again 
and  for  the  last  time.  I  sprang  up  and  followed  till  I 
caught  up  with  him  and  could  lay  my  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"  Douglas,"  I  cried,  breathless ;  "  if  you  still  care 
for  me,  after  what  you  heard  me  say,  here  I  am  I  — 
Won't  you  look  at  me  ?  " 

He  looked,  and  his  eyes  were  hot  with  pain,  —  the 
indignant,  wounded  look  which  also  I  remembered. 

**  Oh,  you  woman  of  words !  Do  you  mean  any- 
thing by  what  you  are  saying,  or  is  it  more  of  your 
damnable  torment  ?  " 

**  I  mean — if  you  will  only  believe  me  —  will  you 
take  the  love  of  my  thirty-three  years?" 

He  stared  and  stared ;  he  hardly  believed  me  even 
then.  "Is  it  finished?"  he  demanded,  without  com- 
ing nearer.  "  Is  there  any  other  test  you  want  to  put 
me  to?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  more  I  can  say,"  I  answered. 

That  was  the  end  of  words  between  us.  .  .  .  What 
305 


EDITH  BONHAM 

followed  was  my  first  sample  of  the  love  of  his  forty 
years.  It  left  me  with  a  sense  of  insufficiency.  This 
evidently  was  not  the  woman's  hour,  not  when  the 
woman  is  thirty-three.  As  moonlight  unto  sunlight, 
as  water  unto  wine,  did  not  fully  meet  the  case.  I  did 
not  believe  I  was  a  "Cousin  Amy.''  No;  it  must  be 
that  I  had  made  the  grand  mistake.  I  did  not  love 
the  man  after  all.  Should  I  even  be  able  to  endure  his 
love? 

These  chilling  reflections  I  recall  for  the  benefit  of 
any  sister-spinster  who  has  postponed  her  betrothal 
kiss  as  late  as  I  did  mine — her  thoughts  taken  up 
meanwhile  with  other  things.  And,  since  the  poets 
speak  for  us  on  these  occasions,  there  is  another  poet 
who  says :  — 

"Weep  no  more  !  oh,  weep  no  more! 
Young  buds  sleep  at  the  root's  white  core." 

The  seasons  take  care  of  themselves ;  all  we  need  to 
do  is  to  see  that  the  root  be  sound  and  clean.  But  I 
was  thinking  just  then  of  my  own  sad  season  when 
romance  has  had  its  day.  I  felt  so  much  more  like 
crying  than  being  kissed.  I  did  cry  —  on  his  manly 
breast  in  womanly  fashion,  and  that  seemed  much 
more  like  what  to  myself  I  called  the  real  thing.  I 
liked  his  awkward  arm  around  me  and  his  rough  coat 
(smelling  of  cigars)  next  my  cheek,  and  the  man's 
heart  pounding  beneath  it.  That  great  power-house 
of  passion  filled  me  with  wonder  and  a  sort  of  awe. 
How  could  it  be  mine? — and  how  came  it  to  be 
mine?  —  and  when  did  all  this  begin?  If  this  were 

306 


MRS.  AYLESFORD 

bliss,  its  neighbor  easily  was  pain —  pain  that  did  not 
even  dissemble  itself  as  bliss. 

How  strange  to  be  thinking  like  this,  detached,  in 
his  very  arms  while  he  was  simply,  honestly  feeling  I 
How  poverty-stricken  seemed  all  this  petty  analysis ; 
had  I  lost  the  power  to  lose  myself?  I  ached  thinking 
of  my  girl  days  gone,  of  those  sad,  stern  "forty  years" 
that  belonged  to  Nanny,  robbed  by  death.  She  had 
earned  them ;  she  had  given  them  to  me,  and  the 
child  of  her  pain  and  care.  I  must  keep  these  treasures 
preciously,  and  share  them  and  pass  them  out  and 
on  —  Perhaps  this  is  what  is  meant  by  the  love  that 
seeketh  not  its  own  ?  If  there  is  any  such  human  love, 
the  name  of  it  on  earth  is  Friendship. 


PART  VII 
OURSELVES 


XXVIII 

This  was  but  the  beginning,  the  anguished,  half- 
stifled,  hurried  birth  of  our  love  so  long  maturing 
blind  and  silent,  according  to  nature's  law.  We  had 
three  days,  three  marvelous  days  as  long  as  many 
years,  before  he  left  us  to  complete  the  arrangements 
for  our  wedding  which  for  practical  reasons  had  to  be 
very  quick,  almost  immediate.  We  went  very  shyly 
into  the  depths,  but  we  found  no  bottom.  I  no  longer 
feared  to  sound  him.  I  looked  all  around  him  as  far 
as  I  could  see,  and  still  he  remained  a  mystery.  But 
I  could  laugh  in  weak  joy  over  some  of  his  self-reve- 
lations —  so  boyish,  so  unbelievably  ingenuous  —  this 
man  I  had  called  hard !  How  little  they  live  inside,  I 
thought,  compared  to  us;  how  blessedly  objective 
they  are  I 

We  had  long  evening  talks  with  the  elders,  and 
walks  by  ourselves  when  they  were  in  bed.  We  dis- 
cussed the  children  and  plans  for  their  futures  which 
should  involve  the  fewest  wrenches.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Aylesford  stoutly  claimed  that  they  had  no  claims  I 
nor  were  they  going  to  feel  the  wrenches.  All  must 
be  done  from  the  children's  side  of  the  question, 
though  Mrs.  Aylesford  did  not  forget  their  father  so 
long  deprived.  Phoebe  would  go  with  us,  and  Billy- 
boy was  to  remain  with  nurse  Roberts  under  the 
grandparents'  roof.  The  farm  was  his  best  school- 

311 


EDITH  BONHAM 

house  for  some  time  to  come,  with  Jonas  for  his  tutor 
in  its  various  branches  of  nature-study.  Phoebe  would 
learn  to  ride  (and  I  should  learn  to  ride,  and  be  able 
to  test  my  theory  that  I  had  an  affinity  for  horses). 
And  the  lessons  would  go  on,  with  many  a  joyous 
interlude  such  as  **out  West"  affords. 

And  then  I  was  his  wife  —  after  a  quiet  wedding, 
only  the  family  present.  I  'm  obliged  to  own  that  my 
dear  Essie,  and  Jack  whom  I  like  so  much,  were  the 
only  fiat-notes  —  very  tactful  but  somehow  inade- 
quate. It  was  not  an  occasion  for  irony,  even  implied, 
and  presented  from  the  side  of  humor. 

But  on  our  way  back  from  our  short  wedding- 
journey,  we  saw  them  again  in  New  York  and  all 
went  merry  as  it  should  with  such  a  merry  pair  as 
they  and  such  a  happy  pair  as  we.  Essie  and  I  spent 
a  morning  appropriate  to  my  character  of  stepmother 
rather  than  bride,  going  over  a  Children's  Emporium 
to  choose  Phoebe's  outfit  for  the  West.  I  had  only  to 
give  her  age  and  select  the  style  of  garment :  —  she 
was  so  symmetrically  made  and  so  normal  physically 
that  she  simply  stepped  into  her  new  suits  and  "be- 
came them,"  as  Roberts  said,  as  if  they  had  been  made 
for  her. 

And  then  one  night  at  ten  o'clock,  we  went  aboard 
the  Pacific  Limited  (the  train  that  hooted  past  us  at 
Lime  Point  and  saw  us  not),  where  most  of  the  Pull- 
man passengers  were  already  in  their  berths.  We 
passed  down  the  curtain-lined  aisle  to  the  little 
"drawing-room"  where  Phoebe  and  I  were  to  keep 
house  with  papa  next  door  for  our  favored  visitor. 

312 


OURSELVES 

And  oh,  what  a  happy  child  it  was  1  It  was  a  happy 
journey,  but  few  journeys  of  a  new-married  couple 
have  that  element  added.  It  was  beautiful  to  us  both 
to  watch  Phoebe's  joy,  her  father  recovered  after  his 
long,  mysterious  absence ;  her  remembrance  of  him 
not  clouded,  only  saved  up  —  They  were  happy  to- 
gether as  in  our  best  days  on  the  mesa ;  those  eve- 
nings when  they  played  *' store"  on  the  parapet,  and 
I  watched  them  from  the  steps  till  bedtime  came. 
She  was  no  longer  litde  "Rappacini's  Daughter." 
She  could  sit  in  his  lap  and  dress  him  up  in  weirdly 
unbecoming  head-gears  and  examine  him  as  her 
property,  till  Aunt  Edith  (I  was  to  remain  "Aunt 
Edith  ")  interrupted  and  sent  him  away  to  the  smok- 
ing-car. She  chattered  while  she  undressed,  delaying 
things  as  always  when  she  was  happy ;  not  talking 
to  any  one  in  particular — just  twittering  as  birds 
that  nestle  for  the  night. 

When  she  was  safe  launched  on  the  tide  of  dreams, 
we  would  sit  by  the  window,  our  lights  out,  and 
watch  the  world  fly  past  us  mile  after  mile.  Its  own 
lights  were  enough  to  see  it  by,  —  long  stretches  of 
country  under  the  moon  or  stars  or  sinking  into 
dusk ;  hamlets  with  scattered  house-lights,  single 
rays  from  lonely  homes ;  then  the  cities  we  clanged 
through,  where  we  shrank  back  from  the  glare  of 
station-lights  and  arc-lights,  and  crowds  staring  at 
the  train  with  its  long  line  of  closely  inhabited  sleep- 
ers, a  train  made  up  of  sleepers,  for  the  nights  and 
days  of  a  continental  journey.  Distance  and  space 
do  count. 

313 


EDITH  BONHAM 

We  talked  like  sober  married  folk,  and  these  to 
me  were  the  most  wonderful  talks  that  most  recalled, 
without  their  fears,  my  best  days  on  the  mesa  when 
we  discussed  the  common  things.  He  talked  of  **  our  " 
mines  which  Mr.  Blair  would  probably  buy  —  the 
whole  group  —  for  his  syndicate.  The  mesa  had  not 
been  sold,  but — here  my  husband  hesitated:  "You 
know  you  said  —  " 

"  I  remember  what  I  said  I  —  and  I  take  it  back.  I 
do  want  to  see  the  place  again.  It  would  be  the  thing 
I  should  love  best  to  go  back  there  with  you  and 
Phcebe,  and  to  have  you  ride  out  as  you  did,  and 
give  your  call,  and  not  to  be  afraid  of  each  other. 
And  to  sit  on  the  bluff  when  Phoebe  is  in  bed  —  and 
one  thing  more  I  You  won't  laugh  ?" 

"Am  I  likely  to  laugh  I"  he  groaned.  Apparently 
he  wasn't  quite  sure  even  yet  that  we  could  talk  in 
this  careless  fashion — about  the  mesa. 

"  I  want  to  go  up  the  windmill  ladder  sometime 
when  Phoebe  can't  see  me,  or  she  might  want  to  do 
it  too.  I  should  like  to  sit  up  there  on  the  platform 
in  the  moonlight  and  see  what  can  be  seen,  and 
*  consider  from  thence.'  " 

**  You  won't  see  much  if  you  wait  for  moonlight." 

"  I  shall  feel  what  can't  be  seen.  It  must  be  won- 
derful !  Will  the  sails  sweep  us  off?" 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  aren't  going  up  alone! 
No;  we'll  unship  the  rudder  and  the  sails  will  be 
still." 

"  Ah,  much  better  I  I  should  hate  a  noise  up  there. 
Are  you  laughing  at  me?" 

3M 


OURSELVES 

He  did  not  laugh.  I  knew  we  should  do  it  some 
day  and  many  other  things  as  foolish.  It  might  be 
foolish  to  sell  the  mines  and  go  back  to  the  mesa 
and  put  the  money  in  the  ground  again.  But  this  is 
what  he  proposed.  Because,  he  said,  Silver  City  was 
too  high  —  women  and  children,  and  horses,  did  not 
do  well  if  they  remained  there  many  years.  And  as 
we  had  waited  so  long  (!)  we  must  not  waste  time 
now  in  separations.  There  were  great  possibilities  in 
a  tract  of  a  thousand  acres  like  the  mesa,  with  water 
upon  it. 

So,  perhaps,  some  day  it  may  blossom  like  the 
rose — blossom  for  us  and  the  children. 

Aunt  Essie's  letter  accompanying  her  wedding- 
present,  which  we  received  a  month  later,  is  almost 
worth  quoting  as  a  last  word  from  my  own  side  of 
the  family.  It  is  mostly  about  myself,  or  Aunt  Essie's 
fancies  about  me  at  the  time  of  writing.  It  suited  her 
mood,  having  just  heard  of  my  marriage,  to  treat  it 
in  this  picturesque  vein.  She  is  also  rather  thrilled 
when  any  of  the  family  does  anything  to  support  her 
theory  that  we  are  all  a  trifle  mad  I 

Her  present  was  quite  mad.  She  boasted  of  the 
fact.  It  was  a  sixteenth-century  bedspread  of  Byzan- 
tine lace  over  a  hand-loom  silk  of  the  same  period. 
**  Royal  dukes  have  slept  under  it,"  she  wrote,  "  with 
their  duchesses  (or  ladies  not  their  duchesses)  —  hor- 
rid deeds  I  've  no  doubt  have  been  plotted  under  it 
by  those  who  could  n't  and  did  n't  deserve  to  sleep. 
Use  it  in  your  pine-board  cabin  if  you  have  one,  or 

315 


EDITH  BONHAM 

in  your  tent  It 's  just  as  appropriate  to  your  mode 
of  life  as  you  are  to  the  American  frontier  I 

"I'm  not  surprised,  of  course.  Places  like  that 
Hudson  River  farm  are  fatal  to  imaginative  girls. 
You  are  a  Telemachus,  supposing  he  had  -  had  the 
soul  of  his  father  which  he  might  have  had,  in  spite 
of  Homer  and  Tennyson — I  can  think  of  you  on 
your  shut-in  shore  watching  the  lights  on  boats  loaded 
with  passengers  for  the  city,  thinking  of  the  liners  at 
their  docks  waiting  to  cast  off.  You  wanted  a  com- 
rade to  fly  with —  it 's  much  the  same  as  if  you  had 
jumped  into  the  river.  You  are  mad,  but  it 's  no  new 
madness.  You  are  as  mad  as  Essie,  yet  somehow  I 
love  and  pity  you  more. 

*'I've  been  making  my  will — the  amusement 
proper  to  my  years.  Your  Uncle  Charles  has  been 
very  decent,  but  in  any  case  I  think  I  shall  probably 
outlive  him  (I  feel  doomed  to  go  on  forever).  I  have 
left  Essie  one  third  more  than  you,  but  I  leave  you 
enough  love  —  though  you  don't  care  for  it  —  to 
make  up.  Essie  has  those  children,  and  she  will  have 
more  I  If  I  were  to  wish  for  you  I  should  pray  that 
you  may  have  no  children  of  your  own.  You  would 
manage  a  mixed  family,  I  dare  say,  better  than  most 
women,  but  it 's  a  thankless  task.  Your  life  will  *  com- 
pose '  better,  as  your  poor  father  would  say,  if  you 
stick  to  the  stepmother  sacrifice  as  you  have  begun. 
Confine  yourself  to  the  children  you  married  for. 
Essie  thinks  that  is  the  whole  reason  —  I  do  not. 

**  Farewell,  sweetest,  dearest,  cleverest,  and  mad- 
dest of  all  the  mad  Bonhams.   I  really  in  the  bottom 

316 


OURSELVES 

of  my  heart  love  your  madness,  but  don't  carry  it  too 
far  1 " 

I  carried  my  madness  certainly  as  far  as  to  have 
children  of  my  own,  though  we  have  n't  laid  much 
emphasis  on  the  possessive,  in  our  "  mixed  family," 
as  Aunt  Essie  would  call  us.  For  obvious  reasons 
Billy,  across  the  continent,  could  not  be  as  close  to 
my  arms  and  thoughts  as  my  own  two  sons,  nor  as 
near  in  any  sense  as  Phoebe.  But  he  was  nearer  to 
Mrs.  Aylesford,  and  dearer  than  any  of  her  grand- 
children, including  my  Bonham  and  Aylesford  (named 
for  her),  whom  she  counted  as  her  own  blood.  Those 
dear  people !  —  they  made  it  so  in  their  wills,  di- 
viding the  inheritance  that  was  Phoebe's  and  Billy's 
into  four  equal  portions  in  favor  of  my  children.  Of 
course  we  think  we  can  count  on  our  boys  to  put  that 
right  when  they  are  of  age.  The  recognition  is  more 
than  any  legacy  to  me. 

Though  Mrs.  Aylesford  had  always  looked  so  much 
the  frailer  of  those  two,  he  went  first,  by  nearly  five 
years.  She  passed  those  years  with  many  hours  of 
silence,  at  peace  with  the  fact  of  waiting,  at  peace 
with  all  that  goes  with  it  at  her  age.  She  accepted 
her  loneliness,  her  almost  total  deafness ;  she  bore 
with  the  infirmities  of  old  servants  whom  she  would 
not  replace.  She  devoted  her  time  to  the  petty  cares 
connected  with  the  property  which  she  already  re- 
garded as  "the children's."  She  was  patient,  wistfully 
patient,  under  the  little  misunderstandings  that  result 
from  deafness  and  forgetfulness  and  failing  powers. 

317 


EDITH  BONHAM 

But  there  was  no  failure  when  it  came  to  a  decision 
of  the  heart. 

It  was  a  fact  we  had  known  for  some  time,  but 
could  not  bring  ourselves  to  speak  of,  that  the  old 
home  was  not  the  best  place  any  longer  for  Billy, 
who  was  a  big  boy  in  the  First  Form  at  St.  Paul's. 
We  thought  she  did  not  see  it,  but  she  had  seen  it, 
as  soon  perhaps  as  we  did.  She  made  up  her  mind 
slowly  as  old  people  do,  reluctant  to  face  the  change  ; 
she  gave  him  up  of  her  own  choice,  though  with  him 
went  the  last  of  her  motherhood,  and  her  active  in- 
terest in  life  was  ended.  She  wrote  carefully,  explain- 
ing all  those  reasons  we  had  known  —  why  he  must 
not  come  back  that  year  for  his  long  vacation,  nor 
any  year  as  an  understood  thing.  A  simple,  wise,  and 
beautiful  letter  which  I  shall  keep  for  those  who  come 
after  us  to  show  the  heart  of  a  perfect  grandmother. 

That  heart,  so  strong  in  the  workings  of  affection, 
no  longer  functioned  well  as  a  means  of  life  for  her. 
She  had  nights  —  not  every  night,  but  sometimes 
many  in  succession  —  when  each  breath  she  drew 
lying  down,  or  even  half-lying  propped  on  pillows, 
was  an  effort  she  might  well  have  wished  could  be 
her  last.  A  little  cushioned  frame  had  been  made  for 
her  on  which  she  leaned  her  head  and  arms  in  a  sit- 
ting position  ;  she  rested  so,  when  she  could  rest,  for 
hours  in  the  night,  dozing  at  intervals,  while  the  nurse 
slept  sound  beside  her  bed.  She  was  always  unwill- 
ing to  keep  any  one  awake  who  had  earned  and 
could  enjoy  the  blessing  of  sleep. 

On  one  of  those  cold  winter  mornings,  on  the 
318 


OURSELVES 

Hudson,  the  nurse  slept  on  till  broad  daylight.  She 
saw  the  shawled  figure  in  the  familiar  attitude,  the 
tired  head  bent  down  on  the  arms  crossed  beneath 
it  —  silent,  but  so  still  I  Troubling  no  one,  asking  no 
assistance,  the  dear  woman  had  gone  as  she  would 
have  wished  to  go. 

Of  all  the  beautiful  lives  I  have  known,  hers  I 
think  was  the  sweetest,  the  most  selfless,  through 
and  through,  the  most  innocent  of  blame.  Her  pass- 
ing was  like  the  cold,  sweet  withering  of  an  autumn 
rose.  To  the  last  she  was  still  a  rose. 

In  thinking  over  what  I  have  written  of  Nanny  — 
of  our  friendship,  which  I  have  made  so  much  of  — 
I  wonder  if  I  have  idealized  it  beyond  what  will  seem 
real  ?  There  may  be  those  who  would  say  there  never 
was  a  friendship  so  brief,  so  young,  that  could  so  take 
hold  on  the  imagination  as  to  aflect  and  even  alter 
the  entire  life  of  the  one  who  survived  its  close.  I 
can  only  say  that  close  was  not  the  end.  Its  flower 
was  brief  —  our  friendship  here — but  it  did  not  die 
when  the  flower  faded.  Fruit  of  the  soul  it  meant  to 
me.  How  it  has  gone  with  her  beyond  the  bounds  of 
silence,  who  knows  ?  Perhaps  she  looks  back  on  her 
few  years  here  with  us  and  wonders  at  these  tributes 
we  render  on  our  knees,  who  loved  her  so  frankly 
and  humanly :  laughed  with  her  and  at  her,  disputed 
her  views,  put  her  up  to  little  ways  of  the  world,  as 
I  used  —  discussing  the  fashions  and  the  men  and 
women  of  the  world  she  scarcely  knew  —  almost,  one 
can  fancy  the  tender  derision  of  our  beloved  dead. 

319 


EDITH  BONHAM 

They  cannot  have  lost  their  humility  nor  their  humor. 
And  perhaps  they  would  ask  us,  if  they  could,  to  for- 
get them  a  little  more,  to  spare  them  excessive  re- 
grets and  a  too  uplifted  worship  of  their  human 
memory,  or  exaggerated  importance  given  to  their 
place  left  vacant,  knowing  as  they  must  the  unimpor- 
tance of  any  one's  place  and  the  endless  shifts  of  fate. 

No ;  I  am  willing  to  concede  that  my  girl  friend 
was  perhaps  as  other  girls,  as  I  was  myself,  when 
we  chose  each  other  at  sight,  disdaining  estimates 
and  comparisons ;  no  less  it  was  a  marriage  of  true 
minds,  such  minds  as  we  had  —  and  then  Death  took 
it  suddenly  and  set  it  in  the  stars  beyond  the  reach 
of  commonplace  and  of  petty  disillusionments.  It 
outlasted  death  and  I  believe  it  would  have  outlasted 
even  life  —  even  if  we  had  both  lived  to  learn  each 
other's  faults  and  forgive  them  as  women  —  to  have 
parted,  as  we  must,  for  long  periods,  keeping  our 
love  alive  through  intensive  thinking  and  in  letters 
constant  and  intimate  as  those  of  sisters  —  more  con- 
stant and  much  more  intimate  than  mine  and  Essie's. 
That  sound,  good  human  friendship  was  denied  us ; 
its  incorruptible  part  was  left,  my  part,  which  I  be- 
lieve, as  nearly  as  it  can  on  earth,  matches  her  part 
—  wherever  she  is  in  this  long  silence. 

If  that  does  not  seem  real  to  those  who  are  in  the 
busy  life  of  the  world,  it  was  real  enough  to  me  in 
my  solitudes,  in  a  round  of  cares  centered  in  her  chil- 
dren (of  the  man  she  loved)  whom  her  love  could  not 
reach,  but  mine  could  —  If  I  have  been  able  to  keep 
faith  in  that  way,  Nanny  dear,  our  love  indeed  has 

320 


OURSELVES 

been  an  "  ever-fixed  mark  that  looks  on  tempest  and 
is  never  shaken." 

No;  there  was  not  the  slightest  possibility  for 
Douglas  and  me  that  our  marriage,  impossible  as  it 
seemed,  could  have  turned  out  to  be  a  mistake,  with 
that  beginning,  or  that  our  children  should  have 
come  into  the  world  to  mark  it  a  failure.  Of  them  I 
could  be  only  too  happy  to  talk  I  But  herein  lies  a 
distinction  that  brings  in  the  oneness  of  the  relation ; 
I  could  say  anything  I  wished,  of  Billy  and  Phoebe, 
but  when  it  comes  to  my  **  own"  there  comes  too  the 
touch  of  self-consciousness. 

And  so  of  the  man  who  is  so  close  to  one.  I  have 
said  a  great  deal  in  these  pages  about  my  husband, 
before  he  was  my  husband  —  I  handled  him  freely 
once  and  with  words  to  spare.  Lightnings  and  thun- 
der come  with  the  storm,  and  words  are  torn  from 
us  in  the  tempest-times  of  our  lives,  and  dead  words 
we  wish  had  died  unborn  choke  the  old  paths  of 
memory  and  mark  with  waste  the  track  of  the  storm 
that  is  past.  But,  when  the  clear,  dark  nights  of  stars 
return,  —  our  stars  that  we  see  from  that  "top  of  the 
world,"  as  we  call  the  mesa, — or  the  white  nights 
that  steep  the  earth  in  moonlight;  when  the  long 
days  of  summer's  fruition  are  with  us  again  and  the 
shortening  days  bring  back  the  ancient  sadness  of 
the  harvest-burdened  year,  we  do  not  complain  of 
these  seasons  of  blessedness  that  they  are  not  prolific 
of  sound.  And  so  my  story,  that  began  late  as  a  love- 
story,  must  end  as  the  happy  love-stories  do  end  — 
in  silence :  as  life  shall  end  for  us  all  at  last 


LATER  WORDS,  BY  PHCEBE 

This  is  the  record  as  our  Beloved  left  it.  She  never 
spoke  of  it  to  me  but  once,  and  then  deliberately,  as 
if  she  wished  to  explain  —  perhaps  to  herself  also  — 
how  it  had  come  to  be  written. 

*'  I  meant  it  for  you,  I  think,  as  a  legacy,"  she  said, 
"  from  my  private  life  to  yours.  I  wanted  you  to  know 
some  day,  so  far  as  I  know  it,  the  story  of  your  two 
mothers,  of  the  bond  between  them,  and  how  your 
father  came  into  it —  had  to  come —  which  made  us 
just  the  family  we  are.  But,"  she  added,  **  it  would 
never  have  been  written  except  under  the  pressure, 
day  after  day,  of  those  first  years  at  Lime  Point.  What 
we  call  the  tides  of  life  had  risen  high  just  before  that 
sudden  check  that  left  me  full  of  towering  recollec- 
tions and  thoughts  that,  in  that  house,  were  literally 
unspeakable  I  The  contrast  between  your  dear  grand- 
mother's reveries  in  those  days  and  mine  I  So  I  talked 
to  myself  on  paper  —  hours,  alone  —  as  people  who 
are  going  out  of  their  minds  talk  aloud  when  there 
is  no  one  there.  I  talked  to  you  and  fancied  you 
were  the  woman  I  knew  you  would  be  some  day, 
who  would  understand. 

"The  greater  part  —  all  the  hardest  part  —  was 
written  that  first  winter,  before  I  could  have  known 
what  was  the  truth.  Afterwards  I  had  to  finish  or  de- 
stroy what  I  had  done.  Nothing  is  true,  you  know, 
till  it  is  finished — till  we  are  finished." 

322 


LATER  WORDS,  BY  PH(EBE 

She  smiled  and,  after  thinking,  added :  **  I  wonder 
if  it  is  true  I  I  was  reading  over  my  dear  father's  let- 
ters at  that  time,  and  they  were  another  human  docu- 
ment—  very  human  1  They  were  exciting  and  stimu- 
lating, but  they  were  most  disturbing.  They  irritated 
me  in  a  way  that  strikes  me  now  as  funny  I  —  con- 
sidering what  I  had  then  attempted  to  do  myself.  It 
really  annoyed  me  very  much  that  my  own  father 
who  was  so  clever  did  not  seem  to  have  been  clever 
enough  to  tell  the  truth,  exactly,  about  any  person  he 
was  speaking  of,  or  any  circumstance  he  related,  or 
any  place  he  was  supposed  to  describe.  I  remem- 
bered some  of  the  persons  myself,  and  had  seen  a 
good  many  of  the  places. 

**  He  was  one  of  the  sincerest  men  that  ever  lived  ; 
he  must  have  believed  he  was  telling  the  truth,  but 
he  never  by  any  chance  did  tell  it,  —  the  whole  truth, 
things  in  their  right  proportions,  —  so  that  any  one 
could  gather  it  from  what  he  said  at  the  time.  The 
time  and  the  mood  had  so  much  to  say  to  him.  And 
he  had  such  an  overflowing  fancy  of  his  own,  a 
petted  fancy  that  had  always  had  its  own  way. 

**Now,  I  wonder,  Phoebe  dear,"  —  she  smiled  at 
me,  deep  into  my  eyes  in  a  quiet,  candid  way  she 
had  of  looking  at  us  she  loved  (oh,  the  beautiful  eyes 
we  shall  never  see  again  1)  —  "I  wonder,"  she  empha- 
sized, "  whether  when  you  come  to  read  my  '  remains' 
you  will  have  that  teased  sense  of  inaccuracy  almost 
willful  —  certainly  needless  —  that  used  to  provoke 
me  to  contradict  my  dear  father  in  his  grave !  —  Partly 
for  his  own  sake ;  his  moods  and  fancies  were  not 

323 


EDITH  BONHAM 

the  best  part  of  him.  Well ;  I  was  the  victim  of  moods 
and  fancies,  too,  as  you  will  see.  If  there  is  anything 
you  would  like  to  contradict  when  you  read  me  —  I 
that  was  so  critical  of  my  own  father  —  do  so,  dearl 
I  shall  be  thankful.  Who  would  n't  be,  to  be  spared 
doing  an  injustice  in  one  careless  sentence,  perhaps, 
when  just  adding  another  sentence  or  changing  the 
emphasis  a  little  would  make  it  nearer  right? 

"  *  If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved,'  "  she  threw 
in  with  her  beaming  smile,  "then  deal  with  me  and 
my  document  accordingly  I  You  must  spare  me  the 
hurt  of  hurting  others  when  it 's  too  late  for  me  to 
alter  anything  I  have  said,  or  had  better  not  have 
said." 

Her  mind  to  the  last  found  its  best  companionship 
in  the  words  of  the  old  poets  of  her  youth  that  she 
knew  by  heart  (that  she  taught  to  my  little  mother) 
—  old  quotes  that  used  to  make  her  "greet"  as  she 
would  say,  smiling.  And  they  were  her  mental  toys 
in  lighter  speech,  when  she  wished  to  hide  emotion 
she  no  longer  dared  to  trifle  with.  As  she  grew  older, 
and  became  absorbed  in  public  events,  her  reading- 
appetite  craved  whatever  was  written  of  importance 
bearing  on  the  political  tendencies  of  the  nations  that 
were  drifting  towards  this  vortex.  Many  of  her  friends 
were  more  lately  traveled  in  those  countries,  but  she 
saw  them,  I  thought,  in  a  larger  way,  reflectively, 
and  she  had  her  own  words  for  describing  them. 
France,  she  said,  has  always  been  spoken  of  in  meta- 
phors because  she  fires  the  imagination.  She  was  the 
bright  light  of  Europe  passed  from  hand  to  hand  and 

324 


LATER  WORDS,  BY  PHOEBE 

shaken  in  the  wind,  but  now  the  flame  pointed  up- 
ward and  burned  still  and  clear  as  the  candles  on  a 
shrine.  England  she  scolded  as  we  scold  the  one  we 
love  best  of  all  —  the  one  we  cannot  bear  should  go 
wrong  I  When  England  had  made  the  great  choice  in 
this  war,  she  said,  "  Now  we  can  trust  the  end  1  In 
saving  her  own  honor  and  herself,  she  has  saved  the 
world.'*  What  she  prayed  for  next  was  our  own  tes- 
timony —  which  never  came  I  She  died,  alas,  in  the 
war's  darkest  year  and  in  the  depths  of  our  own 
quibbling  neutrality. 

The  profound  emotions  of  the  war  had  seemed  to 
act  at  first  as  a  tonic ;  she  was  distinctly  stronger, 
less  indifferent,  than  at  any  time  since  her  widow- 
hood. But  then  came  the  steady  heart-grind,  the  lists 
of  the  dead,  the  sorrows  of  her  friends  abroad,  the 
unimaginable  suffering,  our  own  lost  opportunity 
that  wore  on  her — the  low  number  we  were  to  take 
in  the  Great  Examination.  I  think  it  hastened  the 
end  for  her.  She  overtaxed  her  mind  in  proportion 
to  her  feelings.  She  read  —  she  devoured  —  every- 
thing about  the  war,  turning  from  the  subject  sud- 
denly and  burying  herself  in  the  past,  only  to  come 
upon  it  there,  in  clairvoyant  sentences  that  sound  to- 
day like  prophecy,  weird  warnings  that  were  treated 
as  rhetoric,  menaces  that  we  played  with. 

On  her  bedside  table  were  always  one  big  ancient 
and  one  big  modern.  She  read  them  in  the  long 
hours  of  her  wakeful  nights — those  nights  of  her  im- 
measurable grief  I  What  else  she  did  in  those  lonely 
vigils  we  could  only  guess  by  her  delicate  white  face 

325 


EDITH  BONHAM 

and  ravaged  looks  in  the  morning.  Yet  she  said  she 
was  glad  to  know  —  to  suffer  in  his  footsteps,  though 
not  for  long  —  what  he  had  suffered  in  his  youth  and 
strength,  when  he  lost  my  mother ! 

Could  one  woman  honor  another's  memory  more 
than  that?  Can  dignity  and  generosity  of  a  **  second 
wife"  towards  her  husband's  **  first,"  go  any  fur- 
ther! That  was  Aunt  Edith  —  "mother,"  queen  of 
all  mothers,  perfect  in  love,  in  friendship,  in  magna- 
nimity, the  soul  of  friendship,  which  came  as  natural 
to  her  as  vanity  and  selfishness  to  smaller  natures. 

It  is  not  for  me  to  discuss  them,  to  take  stock  of 
their  different  qualities  and  capabilities  —  my  two 
mothers,  now  that  both  are  gone.  Each  would  have 
shrunk  from  the  thought  of  such  comparison.  But  I 
know  that  my  own  mother  would  have  said  that  her 
friend  was  incomparably  the  greater  person  —  and 
for  herself  she  would  have  asked  no  praise  beyond 
the  fact:  "Edith  loved  me  as  I  am."  ...  It  is 
enough,  and  it  does  n't  matter.  But  of  course  that 
is  one  of  the  self-evident  truths  Aunt  Edith  would 
never  have  recognized  and  could  not  have  brought 
out  in  her  own  story. 

Also,  in  one  part  of  the  narrative — that  part  which 
must  have  been  "  hardest  to  write"  —  she  has  left  an 
impression  most  natural  at  the  time,  but  I  think  she 
herself  would  have  straightened  it  if  she  had  not 
been  so  reluctant  to  go  back  over  those  pages.  It 
concerns  the  little  town  that  used  to  be  called  "  The 
City  of  the  Desert  Plains."  It  really  is  very  much 
of  a  city  now  and  the  plains  are  no  more  a  desert. 

326 


LATER  WORDS,  BY  PHCEBE 

Boise  was  our  home  address  for  the  nine  happy 
years  we  lived  on  the  mesa.  Father  disposed  of  his 
mining  interests  very  soon  after  we  went  back  to 
Idaho.  We  moved  down  to  the  mesa  in  the  opening 
spring.  The  years  that  followed,  of  its  resurrection  as 
a  home,  the  re-sowing  and  re-timbering  of  the  land, 
which  to  a  child  of  my  age  were  as  one  long  holiday, 
must  have  been  to  Aunt  Edith,  with  all  the  happi- 
ness, a  time  of  care  and  stress.  Her  life  was  never 
easy,  never  idle,  but  in  those  years  she  was  occu- 
pied in  very  vital  ways :  it  was  then  she  became 
"mother" — Bonham  and  Aylie,  the  two  dear  brothers 
she  gave  the  family,  were  both  born  on  the  mesa, 
very  close  to  each  other.  And  there  was  another  boy 
baby  who  only  lived  a  short  while.  It  was  after  I 
was  married  and  a  mother,  I  first  learned  what  that 
time  had  meant  to  her.  She  had  to  go  away,  I  re- 
member, to  get  well ;  and  I  was  struck  by  a  new 
look  in  her  face  when  she  came  back  to  us.  But  I 
had  never  really  seen  her  with  fresh  eyes  before  — 
eyes  of  a  child  old  enough  to  know  how  beautiful 
she  was.  Such  deep,  sweet  acquiescence  in  every- 
thing.— Is  it  Hkely  she  would  have  wanted  to  hold 
up  to  scorn  the  place  that  was  made  so  sacred  to 
her  —  where,  on  the  little  hill  beside  my  mother,  her 
own  baby  child,  the  last  she  was  to  bear,  was  laid  ? 

There  could  not  have  been  much  time  for  what  is 
called  social  intercourse  with  the  town,  three  miles 
away.  Yet  so  little  ** intercourse"  is  needed  when 
people  feel  right  towards  one  another.  She  felt  that 
way  to  everybody ;  she  had  outgrown  all  small  re- 

327 


EDITH  BONHAM 

sentments,  if  she  ever  had  any.  You  saw  it  in  her 
face.  Father  and  she  picked  and  chose  as  to  friends, 
but  one  does  that  everywhere,  and  I  am  sure  they 
found  the  stuff  of  long  friendships  there. 

It  was  a  town  of  mixed  periods  of  settlement  and 
many  mixed  elements,  and  the  dregs  I  suppose  were 
still  at  the  bottom,  but  they  were  not  spilled  all  over 
us  as  they  seem  to  have  been  over  her,  that  first  dif- 
ficult summer  when  she  was  so  defenseless.  The 
place,  as  she  has  left  it  in  this  part  of  her  story,  quite 
understandably,  seems  like  a  sink  of  ignorance  and 
narrowness  and  gossip  of  the  crudest  kind.  But  that 
is  not  our  Boise  ! 

It  is  a  forward-looking,  a  brilliant  little  center  for 
a  country  waking  up — you  would  hear  of  enter- 
prises now  that  sound  like  fairy-tales.  They  were 
conceived  and  worked  out  by  men  of  unusual  parts 
at  various  times  separated  by  long  intervals  of  har- 
rowing patience.  There  is  always  a  fund  of  general 
capacity  to  draw  upon  in  these  little  towns  that  were 
so  far  ahead,  in  their  dreams,  of  any  possible  reality ; 
that  have  gazed  on  poverty  and  loneliness  and  failure 
and  hopes  in  ruins,  and  learned  to  do  everything 
while  they  waited  except  give  up.  The  town  has 
kept  on  with  its  fight  for  homes  in  the  desert,  and 
all  manner  of  lesser  fights  have  been  lost  and  won 
in  between  the  physical  fight  with  nature  —  some  of 
them  very  great  little  victories  on  questions  of  prin- 
ciple that  strike  hands  with  good  citizenship  the 
country  over  and  the  credit  of  the  whole  nation.  But 
that  story  does  n't  come  into  the  present  one  and  is 

328 


LATER  WORDS,  BY  PHCEBE 

far  beyond  the  power  even  to  suggest,  of  one  who 
was  only  a  child,  growing  up  on  the  mesa. 

What  v/e  did  was  to  look  across  at  sunset  when 
the  town  was  half-lost  in  colored  haze  and  say,  **  How 
pretty  1 "  and  point  to  the  foothills  like  crumpled  vel- 
vet piled  up  in  soft  light  behind  it.  Prettier  still  after 
dark  with  its  lights  pricked  out  on  the  distance, —  more 
and  more  lights  behind  trees  hiding  the  river,  more 
and  more  single,  straggling  lights  along  the  roads  and 
sprinkled  over  the  valley.  We  children  mourned  I  be- 
cause the  farms  were  crowding  out  our  beloved  sage 
— our  old  dusty  desert  lap  rising  in  perspective  as  we 
looked  off  —  the  yellow  curtain  that  hung  like  a  flag 
of  quarantine  once  between  our  sickness  and  the 
town.    Now  it  was  such  a  checkered  curtain  I 

We  growled  I  But  mother  said,  "  It 's  one  of  these 
facts,  you  know,  that  the  water  we  could  n't  live  here 
without  brings  them  too,  and  their  little  new-shingled 
houses  are  just  as  beautiful  to  them  as  our  big  bare 
windy  shelf  is  beautiful  to  us." 

How  we  fought — how  they  fought — for  those  free, 
simple  lines,  in  the  teeth  of  every  professional  gar- 
dener they  tried ;  Aden,  who  was  not  strong  in  tech- 
nique, but  knew  something  of  the  soil  and  of  us  and 
what  we  wanted,  looking  on  in  satiric  silence.  They 
had  a  succession  of  obstinate,  soulless  Germans  who 
knew  everything  I  who  wanted  to  plant  everything, 
specially  bulbs,  in  platoons  and  lay  us  out  in  flower- 
beds. And  what  they  were  n't  allowed  to  do  when 
the  parents  were  on  the  ground,  they  did  do,  firmly, 
—  because  they  knew  they  were  right,  —  as  soon  as 

329 


EDITH  BONHAM 

their  blessed  backs  were  turned,  and  were  "fired*' 
in  consequence  feeling  misunderstood  and  deeply  in- 
jured by  the  ignorance  of  their  idiotic  employers. 
Those  German  gardeners  alone  could  almost  make 
one  understand  this  war  I 

But  now  our  lawn  has  kicked  its  German  flower- 
beds off  the  edge,  so  to  speak,  —  nothing  is  allowed 
thereon  but  the  shadows  that  belong,  our  time-keepers 
and  sentinels  that  march  across  the  bluff; — shadows 
of  the  new  house  (it  was  new  a  good  many  years 
ago),  and  of  the  poplars  that  soar  above  the  roofs  and 
usher  you  into  the  court  the  house  is  built  around. 
It  opens  towards  the  east,  and  on  three  sides  the 
upper  story  projects  the  width  of  a  corridor  sup- 
ported on  pillars  swathed  in  rose-vines,  which  gives 
us  our  cool,  shady  cloisters  beneath ;  where  little  Bon 
used  to  go  to  sleep  wheeled  softly  in  his  baby-car- 
riage; where  father  used  to  smoke  on  moonlight 
nights  when  there  was  too  wild  a  wind  in  front ;  walk- 
ing with  our  dear  one  at  his  side — tall  in  her  white 
dresses,  lovely,  oh,  so  lovely!  the  little  dark  classic 
head  I  how  she  belonged  to  courts  and  moonlight  — 
the  house  he  built  for  her,  the  house  of  their  romance. 
Father  felt,  I  think,  though  he  never  said  such  things, 
that  she  was  of  an  older  world  than  ours ;  she  kept 
it  in  the  background,  but  you  felt  that  she  had  it,  the 
memories  of  historic  places  and  a  richer  human  past 
than  we  could  gather  around  us.  And  yet  the  real 
romance  of  that  house  was  founded  on  the  time  when 
she  was  mothering  me  out  there  alone  in  the  heat 
and  dust  and  grime  ! 

330 


LATER  WORDS,  BY  PHCEBE 

Beauty  was  the  breath  of  life  to  her — she  brought 
it  by  her  very  presence  wherever  she  went ;  but  her 
thoughts  could  make  any  place  beautiful,  and  she 
accepted  as  her  lot  anything  life  offered  at  the  hands 
of  love  and  experience. 

If  you  live  in  a  great  bare  land  of  sunshine  you 
learn  the  value  of  shadows.  Our  shadows  on  the 
mesa  had  the  reality  for  us,  when  we  were  children, 
of  members  of  the  family.  They  made  their  rounds 
of  the  lawn  and  the  house  as  if  they  had  taken  the 
**  job  "  for  life.  At  night,  when  the  moon  rose  big  over 
the  back-lands,  a  fresh  group  filled  the  court  who  were 
periodical  visitors  and  brought  with  them  the  spirit 
of  romance.  Then  the  little  cloistered  place  was  like 
"a  queen's  secluded  garden";  and  there  was  one 
poplar  that  stood  just  within,  slender  as  a  cypress, 
and  cast  its  reflection  across  the  pool,  and  the  moon's 
face  looked  out  from  behind  it  on  the  sleeping  water. 
We  called  it  the  *'  Little  Princess  Poplar,"  and  her 
three  brothers  kept  guard  outside  and  lent  their 
shadows  to  make  the  whole  mass  of  the  house-shadow 
look  as  if  we  had  a  minaret  shooting  up  from  the 
north  gable. 

The  shrub-planting  was  kept  very  cunningly  below 
the  bluff,  not  to  break  its  outline  from  the  house.  You 
saw  nothing  different  from  the  old  view  till  you  went 
to  the  edge,  and  there  was  all  that  beauty  down 
below  ;  solid  masses  at  the  bottom,  climbing  in  lighter 
growths,  with  nooks  and  spaces  for  tucking  in  a  pet 
flower  to  spread  its  blossoms  shyly  till  it  was  sought. 
There  was  room  along  the  whole  scarp  for  so  much 

331 


EDITH  BONHAM 

beauty  1  —  and  none  of  the  natural  lines  interrupted. 
I  must  tell,  just  to  plague  the  German  gardeners, 
how  her  bulbs  found  their  home  at  last.  They  simply 
took  possession  when  invited  of  the  hollow  below  the 
old  windmill,  all  smothered  now  in  Clematis  pani' 
culata  up  to  the  dizzy  platform  and  the  sails.  There 
is  always  a  little  leakage  here  to  freshen  the  grass 
which  is  never  touched  with  a  scythe  till  the  last  of 
the  imperial  family  of  Japanese  iris  has  spent  its  bloom. 
(They  had  such  names  as  **  Smoke  after  Battle,"  or 
"Clouds  before  Dawn.") 

The  new  house  was  in  the  nature  of  things :  one 
can  be  hardy  and  even  perennial  and  still  need  a  few 
bathrooms.  But  those  wise  parents  kept  the  low  lines 
of  the  old  house,  which  was  only  low  of  necessity, 
and  the  studio-lighting  mother  loved  was  repeated 
in  a  more  finished  way  in  the  two  rooms  facing  west 
which  would  have  been  shaded  by  the  veranda  roof. 
It  gave  distinction  to  the  dining-room,  as  a  high  wain- 
scot does,  with  band-windows  near  the  ceiling  and  the 
very  curtains  you  would  wish  strung  across  the  keen 
sky-blue  :  as  she  chose  the  curtains  there  was  no  mis- 
take made  as  to  their  color. 

But  in  the  library  —  the  room  which  spoke  of  her  1 
—  there  were  wonderful  windows  of  glass-painting 
that  transformed  the  light  into  a  strange,  flowing 
design  carrying  from  space  to  space  crossed  by  the 
lead  lines — cool,  opaline  colors  with  here  and  there 
the  opal's  heart  of  fire.  You  knew,  if  you  knew  any- 
thing of  glass,  that  a  master  made  them.  Our  mas- 
ter, when  he  was  young,  had  been  a  protege  of  her 

333 


LATER  WORDS,  BY  PHCEBE 

father's  whose  perspicacious  eye  saw  the  genius  in 
his  work  when  all  New  York,  except  Frederick  Bon- 
ham  and  the  judgments  he  controlled,  were  laughing 
at  it.  And  here  it  was  in  its  priceless  maturity  1  It 
would  have  taken  a  good  deal  of  mother's  affluence 
(that  came  to  her  from  her  Aunt  Essie  who  had  her 
husband's  money  at  her  disposal  after  his  death)  to 
have  paid  for  those  windows.  It  was  intended,  I 
know,  that  they  should  be  an  order,  but  their  artist 
superbly  insisted  they  were  (and  had  been  from  the 
first)  a  gift  —  to  the  room  itself  1  and  would  have 
them  to  be  a  gift.  He  said  nothing,  for  he  was  a  sen- 
sitive person,  about  indebtedness  to  her  father  for 
sympathy — and  perhaps  some  more  substantial  form 
of  help  —  at  a  critical  time  in  his  young  struggles. 
He  had  come  out  there  one  summer  on  his  way  to 
somewhere  else  and  stayed  a  fortnight  (apparently 
to  his  own  surprise).  There  were  oceans  of  talk,  like 
the  talk  I  heard  in  Italy  when  I  went  abroad  with 
mother  and  we  visited  her  astonishing  Aunt  Essie 
in  a  great  sixteenth-century  villa  where  you  moved 
among  terraces  and  frescoed  chambers  with  ceil- 
ings you  could  not  see,  as  if  you  were  in  a  Hall  of 
Dreams. 

Our  mother  could  drop  her  household  speech  and 
enter  into  any  other  fashion  of  words  her  company 
demanded,  but  when  the  guest  was  gone  it  was  gone, 
— that  intoxication,  as  it  must  have  been,  of  the  old 
brilliant  atmosphere.  Father,  I  observed,  enjoyed  it, 
though  he  sat  silent  and  was  manifestly  out  of  the 
game.  He  was  never  in   spirit  out  of  any  of  her 

333 


EDITH  BONHAM 

games  that  for  want  of  practice  he  could  take  no  part 
in.  And  she  had  the  sweetest,  humblest  respect  for 
that  want  of  practice.  She  knew  the  cost  of  inordinate 
skill  in  words ;  its  dissipating  mental  effect  and  its 
dangers  to  human  intercourse.  In  all  these  ways,  for 
a  woman  so  clever  as  she,  so  experienced  in  all  soci- 
eties, that  humility,  that  sober,  qualifying  power  was 
to  my  mind  the  most  remarkable  thing  about  her, 
the  highest  proof  of  her  training. 

She  had  her  own  little  sudden  ways  of  petting  us 
and  showing  us  we  were  adored.  She  always  made 
it  somehow  impersonal  —  of  that  art  she  was  past- 
mistress  I 

"Sit  there  a  moment,  Phoebe,"  she  said  one  day 
and  pointed  to  a  chair  at  the  library-table.  It  stands 
under  those  jeweled  windows  a  little  out  from  the 
books,  facing  the  room.  I  sat  as  bidden  and  felt,  as 
you  do  feel  color  almost  palpably,  the  splendor  stream 
over  me  and  saw  it  in  spots  and  splashes  on  my  hands 
and  arms  resting  on  the  table.  She  stepped  off  a  little 
and  looked  at  me  with  her  happy  eyes  and  mur- 
mured some  words  from  the  *'  Paradiso"  :  — 

"  O  perpetual  flowers  of  the  eternal  gladness, — " 

"Phoebe!"  she  cried,  **you  look  this  minute  as  if 
angels  were  scattering  those  flowers  on  your  head, 
dear  child!" 

She  had  this  joy  in  things  on  which  she  set  her 
own  values  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  price.  If  she' 
had  waited  for  grand  occasions  to  wear  her  beautiful 
things,  we  should  not  have  known  her  in  them :  — she 

334 


LATER  WORDS,  BY  PHOEBE 

would  put  on  "Aunt  Essie's  pearls,"  or  some  old 
trifling  chain  of  curious  workmanship,  spoils  of  the 
studio-days,  with  equal  contentment,  whichever  suited 
her  mood.  Our  windows,  that  were  entirely  as  well  as 
literally  "  over  the  heads"  of  most  of  our  visitors,  she 
liked  to  think  were  nothing  but  genius  and  sunshine 
—  which  is  cheap  on  the  mesa — and  scraps  of  lead 
and  lumps  of  glass.  They  made  a  poem  of  that  room 
for  her.  They  bloomed  in  their  unfading  splendor  in 
all  the  lights,  in  all  the  hours  of  our  happy  days.  In 
moonlight  they  were  marvelous,  like  sea-deeps  lighted 
through  the  waves.  They  scattered  those  imperish- 
able flowers  — 

"0  perpetui  fiori  eterna  letizia — " 

upon  the  heads  of  us  all,  upon  her  head  the  dearest ! 
I  can  see  her  at  that  table,  her  profile  with  the  beauti- 
ful eyelid  dark-shaded  underneath.  She  might  have 
been  checking  up  bills;  — she  looked  like  a  goddess 
who  has  given  away  her  immortal  youth  and  beauty 
and  consented  to  human  weariness  and  motherhood 
and  housekeeping  and  gray  hairs. 

How  much  more  I  have  said  than  I  meant  to  say  I 
It  seemed  most  difficult  at  first  to  add  my  words  to 
hers  that  were  her  last.  But  having  started  I  find  my- 
self rambling  on  for  pure  love  of  the  memories  which 
are  all  we  have  left  of  her  now. 

I  am  restless  here  in  New  York  when  I  think  of  the 
adorable  place  out  there  alone.  There  are  precious 
reasons  why  I  should  love  it —  **top  of  the  world," 

335 


EDITH  BONHAM 

she  called  it.  It  was  there  I  reached  the  summit  of  a 
girl's  happiness.  But  that  was  long  ago  I 

Jack  —  Jack  Landreth  —  and  I  are  not  in  the  least 
related,  though  I  have  always  heard  of  his  father  and 
mother  as  "Uncle  Jack  and  Aunt  Essie."  He  had 
taken  his  medical  degree  at  Johns  Hopkins  and  he 
was  in  Paris  studying,  the  last  year  I  was  at  Dieu- 
donne,  a  school  a  little  way  out  of  the  city.  There 
were  three  other  American  girls,  all  as  homesick  as 
we  could  be.  His  mother  came  out  to  visit  him  (and 
get  some  clothes)  and  she  paid  me  a  visit,  of  course, 
as  she  is  my  step-aunt;  and  she  gave  us  all,  the 
Americans,  a  tea  —  the  most  splendid  little  affair  she 
could  make  it.  She  came  down  again  on  purpose  to 
cast  a  motherly  eye  over  my  school-girl  wardrobe — 
dissatisfied,  I  could  see  she  was,  though  she  made 
not  a  single  comment,  and  she  dressed  me  for  that 
tea,  hat  and  all,  as  you  would  turn  your  hand  over  I 
There  was  a  bouquet  with  Jack's  card,  but  as  it  went 
with  my  dress  exactly,  and  as  he  had  never  seen  me 
in  his  life,  I  concluded  he  had  n't  had  much  to  do 
with  it. 

He  lounged  in,  however,  quite  thrown  in  the  shade 
by  one  or  two  very  fine  personages  who  had  con- 
sented to  grace  the  occasion  —  our  own  Ambassa- 
dress for  one.  He  gathered  us  all  in  with  his  strange 
eyes  with  long  corners,  the  aloof  yet  penetrating  look 
of  a  born  doctor,  or  a  born  artist.  Our  dear  one  said 
he  was  exactly  what  her  father,  his  grandfather  Bon- 
ham,  might  have  been  if  he  had  been  spared  the  artist 
temperament.  I  am  thankful  Jack  escaped  —  though 

336 


LATER  WORDS,  BY  PHCEBE 

every  time  I  visit  his  family  I  wonder  how  he'man- 
aged  to.  I  thought,  as  soon  as  I  saw  him,  that  he  was 
like  her — our  mother  —  more  like  her  than  either  of 
her  own  sons ;  the  same  supple  lengths  defying  age, 
the  small,  beautifully  poised  head  and  fine  dark  hair, 
the  finest  —  that  ruffles  a  little  at  the  edges  like  fur. 
The  eager,  Spartan  profile,  every  scrap  of  tissue 
eliminated  from  those  delicate,  stressful  features,  and 
the  long,  splendid  eyes  I  And  even  her  manner — 
gentle  and  deliberate  that  sets  you  at  ease ;  that  man- 
ner most  necessary  to  a  doctor. 

He  came  boiling  out  to  see  us  the  summer  after  we 
both  got  home;  he  was  awfully  thin,  overworked, 
underweight  —  a  few  things  had  happened  in  Paris 
before  his  mother  left.  He  said  it  was  done  —  he  was 
done — right  there  and  then.  But  it  was  the  mesa 
that  finished  me. 

I  must  not  let  myself  dream  and  dote.  He  is  cer- 
tainly (now  that  she  is  no  longer  here)  the  **  dearest, 
sweetest,  cleverest,"  but  I  wish  he  were  not  also  one 
of  the  "  maddest  of  the  mad  Bonhams,"  born  to  win 
hearts  and  to  break  them.  But  if  my  heart  must  break, 
at  least  it  will  be  proud !  He  has  gone  to  France,  my 
boy  who  has  a  boy  of  his  own  as  old  as  I  was  when 
this  tale  began  —  began,  I  mean,  on  the  mesa.  Jack 
is  older  than  my  father  when  he  married  the  sec- 
ond time ;  and  still  he  is  a  boy,  if  that  means  he  is 
ready,  as  youth  is  ready,  to  give  itself  to  a  beautiful 
idea. 

I  made,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  one  little  plea — he 
looked  at  me  surprised ! 

337 


EDITH  BONHAM 

**  Why,  dear,  who  is  to  go,  if  not  fellows  like  me 
whose  children  have  mothers  like  you,  and  all  of  you 
safe  from  want  I  It 's  that  hob-goblin  money  of  Great- 
Aunt  Essie  that  sets  me  free." 

So  there  it  is  again  —  that  bewitched  money !  — 
that's  always  trying  to  justify  its  existence  in  a  fam- 
ily where  it  doesn't  belong.  Was  "Uncle  Charles" 
so  infatuated  with  her?  I  thought  her,  I  must  say,  a 
dreadful  old  creature  with  her  powder  and  low  gowns 
and  jewels,  and  eyes  like  jewels  in  a  strange  setting 
of  pale,  wrinkled  eyelids,  and  the  tiniest  feet  and  the 
highest  slippers  —  the  feet  of  a  Fairy  Godmother. 
Perhaps  he  was  ironical,  as  to  say :  **  Here  it  is,  the 
money  you  married  me  for.  Take  it  all  and  do  with 
it  what  you  dare  I "  She  dared  give  it  to  her  own 
nieces  —  in  return  for  not  being  a  better  aunt  to  them, 
perhaps,  when  they  were  young  motherless  girls 
struggling  with  cares  beyond  them. 

Or,  he  might  have  loved  them  himself  —  they  must 
have  been  so  charming !  They  had  the  graces  of  their 
poverty  —  the  graces  poverty  can't  afford  not  to  have. 
And  he  knew  there  was  greed  without  grace  on  his 
own  side.  Mother  thought  that,  kind  as  he  was,  he  was 
lazy  too,  tired  of  his  great  wealth,  bored  with  think- 
ing how  to  divide  it  and  not  sow  quarrels  amongst 
his  shoals  of  relatives.  So  he  left  it  all  to  her  who 
had  no  conscience  about  kin,  especially  his  kin. 

I  must  not  offend  her  ghost  or  she  will  haunt  me 
with  dreams  of  what  that  witch-money  may  do  to 
me.  .  .  .  Ah,  last  night  I  had  a  dream  1  It  might 
have  been  herself,  for  it  was  a  goblin  visit.  Can  any 

,1^8 


LATER  WORDS    BY  PHCEBE 

one  imag-ine  a  woman  asleep  in  her  bed  in  New 
York  seeing  clear  across  to  France  —  some  of  the 
sights  her  husband  —  does  not  dream  of  —  has —  be- 
fore his  eyes  I  Only,  in  my  dream,  it  was  the  mesa, 
and  guns  —  German  guns  —  were  shelling  us  from 
the  Army  Post  across  the  valley ;  they  had  swept 
that  up  with  one  hand  I  Their  flag  flew  on  the  sky  in 
place  of  ours,  and  their  aim  was  us  —  our  home  and 
the  bench  of  land  we  stand  on,  three  miles  away.  A 
perfect  range,  but  scarcely  a  military  necessity.  I  saw 
that  even  in  a  dream.  I  laughed  I 

"That  must  be  revenge,"  I  said  to  myself  craz- 
ily,  **  for  insulting  their  flower-beds.  Those  are  our 
German  gardeners  —  they  've  not  forgotten  !  "  They 
were  planting  shell  after  shell  where  no  shadows 
would  ever  rest  again ;  they  were  tearing  out  the 
heart  of  the  hill  in  great  gobs  —  the  house  must  go 
next,  I  thought.  It  went.  One  crash  like  a  thunder- 
bolt in  the  front  face  and  our  beautiful  windows  were 
gone.  The  dwelling  stood  in  two  pieces,  a  ruined 
thing,  and  stared  into  its  own  grave.  I  saw  clear 
through  it  into  the  court  where  the  galleries  were 
on  fire,  and  the  rose-vines  hung  in  blackened  strings. 
The  pool  was  as  red  as  blood.  A  wind  stormed  over 
the  hill  and  shook  the  poplars  —  they  stood  up  pale 
in  awful  light  and  rocked  distracted,  and  the  greatest 
of  them  heeled  over  and  went  head  down  into  the 
gulf  that  was  our  lawn. 

There  seemed  then  to  come  a  pause.  I  heard  no 
more  near  explosions,  only  booming  far  off  down 
the  valley.  **  More  homes,"  I  thought,  "  are  going. 

339 


EDITH  BONHAM 

They  will  take  all  the  farmers^  stuff,  they  will  ruin 
the  ditches  —  the  whole  country  will  be  a  desert  as 
it  was  before."  Then  I  looked  again  and  we  were  as 
we  were  before  I  Thirty  years  were  gone  in  an  hour. 
There  was  nothing  there.  Only  the  windmill,  the 
bare  derrick,  standing  out  against  the  sky  alone. 
The  sails  buzzed  faster  and  faster  till  the  wind  rose 
too  strong,  and  then  they  clamped  themselves  and 
were  still.  And  I  heard  that  sound  I  used  to  hear  in 
my  bed  at  night  when  I  lay  sick  out  there  in  the 
fever,  and  thought  it  was  footsteps,  hundreds  of 
frightened  footsteps  running  round  the  house.  There 
were  no  longer  fields  and  orchards  where  ours  have 
been  since  I  was  a  little  girl ;  all  the  back-lands  were 
the  old  desert,  and  in  the  weird  moonlight  which 
showed  this  picture  of  the  past,  I  heard  the  cries  of 
the  desert's  children  at  night,  the  coyotes'  hunting- 
call. 

I  was  awake  now,  but  the  dream  was  before  my 
eyes  much  clearer  than  I  can  tell  it.  I  said :  "  But 
that  was  n't  the  mesa — the  mesa  is  safe  enough  — 
that  is  France,  gone  back  to  desert,  that  is  Belgium, 
after  their  thousand  years  of  culture.  That  is  the  least 
of  what  has  happened  over  there.  They  had  homes 
they  loved  and  hoped  to  leave  their  children,  little 
homes  they  made  themselves,  and  old,  splendid 
homes  the  centuries  made  and  their  fathers'  fathers 
lived  in.  Great  old  trees  and  lovely  roofs  and  towers 
and  priceless  windows.  They  saw  them  go  like  that, 
and  it  was  no  dream.  And  the  cries  —  " 


340 


LATER  WORDS,  BY  PHCEBE 

.  .  .  But  Jack  is  over  there,  doing  his  blessed  work. 
I  was  not  quick  to  answer,  but  I  have  given  much. 
He  is  a  heaven-born  doctor  —  he  is  in  his  prime; 
and  slender  as  he  is  he  is  very  strong ;  he  can  work 
long  hours  without  sleep  or  rest.  He  has  found  for 
souls  like  his  the  only  rest. 

And  I  am  not  the  only  American  woman  by  many 
thousands,  thank  God,  who  has  been  privileged  to 
give,  out  of  her  very  being,  to  the  side  we  belong  on 
in  this  war.  It  would  be  meanness,  in  the  case  of  our 
men  who  have  gone  to  the  fronts,  to  scrutinize  mo- 
tives or  compare  the  gifts  each  had  to  give.  Some  of 
the  lightest  lenders  went  through,  caught  up  in  a 
sudden  holy  joy,  and  finished  the  sacrifice.  And  all 
have  in  some  sense  found  their  wings,  and  a  higher 
path  than  safety  out  of  the  chicken-yard  we  seem  to 
have  become  under  a  clucking  administration.  .  .  . 
Though  any  day,  while  the  struggle  lasts  and  no  one 
can  say  their  chance  is  gone,  we  may  be  called  on  to 
reverse  our  present  judgments,  we  shamed  and  bitter 
ones.  God  grant  we  may ! 

Meantime,  poor  America,  count  thy  jewels !  They 
are  ours  and  they  are  humanity's  too  —  they  seem 
many  of  them  to  have  been  born  and  to  have  waited 
for  this  hour.  The  fliers,  struck  down  from  those  cold 
and  lonely  heights,  the  ambulance-drivers  on  the 
shell-torn  battle-fronts,  those  who  fought  typhus  in 
Serbia  and  hunger  in  Belgium :  men  and  women 
with  reputations  and  a  finished  technique  to  give 
to  the  work,  men  with  nothing  but  themselves  who 
threw  down  the  job  and  slipped  into  the  ranks  of  the 

341  i 


EDITH  BONHAM 

Allies  to  drop  unnoticed  beside  their  war  brothers, 
under  a  flag  not  theirs. 

We  might  thank  them  for  helping  to  save  our  face 
as  a  nation,  but  if  we  praise  them  ourselves,  let  it  not 
be  done  as  to  Americans !  They  are  the  Frenchmen 
who  fought  for  us  when  our  national  history  was 
made ;  they  are  the  Englishmen  who  gave  their  swords 
and  fortunes  to  Greece  in  her  tormented  uprisings ; 
they  are  the  English  and  French  who  bled  for  Italy, 
when  E.  B.  B.,  that  great  lover  of  Italy,  heard  a  little 
child  go  singing  "'neath  Casa  Guidi  windows  by  the 
church,  — 

"  '  O  bella  liberta, 
O  bella  ! '  " 

Which  takes  us  back  to  an  earlier  chapter  of  this 
story,  and  to  poor  old  Captain  Nashe,  of  damaged 
memory.  And  almost  as  if  she  followed  my  words, 
I  can  fancy  our  mother  saying:  "Spare  him  a  flower, 
wherever  he  lies  forgotten!  He  was  one  of  them 
once  —  he  gave  his  life.  It  was  n't  his  fault  that  he 
missed  the  good  fortune  to  lose  it." 

And  if  he  had !  If  Fate  had  been  kind  enough  to 
take  him,  young,  with  Garibaldi's  kiss  fresh  on  his 
dying  face,  —  what  would  it  have  done  to  her,  our 
Dearest? — who  might  never  have  been  ours  if  he 
had  not  crossed  her  path  in  his  shabby  days  and 
parted  her  from  her  father. 

The  difference,  to  us,  is  utterly  incalculable,  but  she 
would  have  been  the  same.  Wherever  she  had  lived, 
in  whatever  society  or  circumstances,  the  greater 

342 


LATER  WORDS,  BY  PHCEBE 

love,  the  greater  understanding,  would  have  been 
hers,  the  wrath  for  "  a  wrong  not  thine  "  and,  in  due 
time,  the  greater  forgiveness.  I  remember  her  quot- 
ing once,  "  *  Pardon  is  a  fruit  that  we  must  not  gather 
green.  We  must  wait  till  it  falls  from  the  tree.' 


>  tt 


THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .   S    .   A 


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